


Sweet Home New Hampshire

by NiebuhrAndWiegh



Category: Breaking Bad, Breaking Bad & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Murder, Rough Sex, Slow Build, Stuck In The Cabin, and Mayhem, mountain living
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiebuhrAndWiegh/pseuds/NiebuhrAndWiegh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unwilling to face a life of obscurity in Omaha, Saul agrees to accompany Walt to New Hampshire. Obliged to share a one-room cabin for an unspecified amount of time, will these two be able to adapt to the wilderness lifestyle and to each other, or will it all end in tears?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deer in the Soup

Saul can’t remember the last time he was this uncomfortable. There’s total darkness inside the propane tank, but he can tell the truck is making its way up a mountain by the way the road twists and turns. He’s never travelled particularly well, and his stomach flip-flops with each curve. Walt’s big barrel of money makes a terrible racket as it rolls back and forth, slamming into one side of the metal tank and then the other. Back and forth...back and forth... Walt himself has been silent on the journey, except for when his cough gets the better of him, racking his body with wheezing and choking. The sharp turns and lack of seatbelts oblige Saul to constantly shift his weight to avoid slumping onto the other man’s shoulder.

“Some road trip,” Saul chuckles, earning no response. With anyone else, he would have been making conversation, telling old stories, cracking jokes. But Walt has been in a dark mood ever since Saul first joined him in Ed’s basement, and he doesn’t want to push him. Not that Walt has ever been a barrel of fun, but in terms of his proximity to a crisis point, Saul would put him at about Defcon 2, at best. Hopefully Walt will snap out of it soon, or else this is going to be one long, miserable camping trip.

\---

As Saul follows Walt out of their hiding place in the propane tank, the cold air of the New Hampshire mountains takes him right back to Cicero. 

“Here, take this.” Ed hands him a fur-lined parka. Saul accepts the coat from the extractor, slips it on, and zips it all the way to his chin. Better.

He definitely should have brought some warmer clothes, but he hadn’t exactly had time for a shopping trip before fleeing Albuquerque. His set of blue suitcases contain almost nothing but business attire, light casual wear, and a couple of mementos. Plus a handgun, of course. He hadn’t been expecting to need one in his new life, but he had brought it anyway, and he’s certainly glad to have a weapon now that he’s with Walt. 

Saul surveys his surroundings. He can sense the desolation of the area; there’s no trace of highway noise. He doesn’t even hear any birds. Partway up a slope is the small cabin where he and Walt will be staying while they wait out the nationwide manhunt for the notorious Heisenberg. A dense forest extends behind the cabin for as far as he can see.

Perhaps letting Walt talk him into coming along had been a bad idea, but the prospect of living out his life in obscurity in Omaha, always looking over his shoulder, never feeling like himself again, a nobody… he just couldn’t do it. Saul remembered when he took the leap and followed his brother to Albuquerque, and it had been the best decision he ever made. Now it was time to take another leap, but with eyes open. Somehow, he would find a way to get a semblance of his life back. If that meant trading Walt to the DEA some time down the road, so be it. If it meant waiting for the bastard to finally kick the bucket, that would work too. Saul’s office was clean. The cops had nothing on him besides whatever Pinkman had said. And now… well, Walt had told him what had happened to Schrader and Pinkman. Poor kid. But ultimately, the remnants of the Heisenberg empire would crumble and Saul would go set up shop somewhere new, somewhere far away from any loose ends. As his feet crunch through the snow, he thinks Miami might be a good fit, maybe California. The thought of bikinis and margaritas brings a smile to his face.

\---

Ed shows Walt and Saul around the one room cabin. It’s small and dusty, probably home to about a hundred black widows, but it has some modern conveniences, at least. A generator and running water, those are two big plusses. 

“You got about a month's worth of food on hand, most of it's canned goods, but there's steaks in the freezer,” Ed explains. “You got a generator outside, works on LP. Ought to be enough in the tank to last out the winter. It's only 15 amps, but that ought to do for the lights, TV, and the freezer.”

Saul looks at the old-fashioned stove. “Did you lift this from a one-room schoolhouse?” 

“That's a wood-burner. Ought to warm the place up pretty good. Plus you can cook on it.”

Saul wonders who’s going to have to trudge through the forest gathering firewood. As Walt descends into another violent coughing fit, he has a feeling he knows the answer.

Ed continues giving them the grand tour. “On the TV front, the reception's pretty much nil. You got some mountains in the way. Weather's right, you might be able to catch Montreal, but mostly you'll be limited to DVDs.”

Saul presses the power button and starts cycling through the channels. Snow...snow...snow… How thematically appropriate. On top of the TV is a small box, containing a couple of DVDs. “Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium,” Saul reads, “and…” seeing another of the same, he opens the box. “Huh, I figured one of these would be hiding a Girls Gone Wild or something.”

Ed replies with a tired shrug. “I'm not much of a movie guy. I'll make a supply run next month. You want something else to watch, put it on the list.” He then warns that, for their own safety, there’s no phone, no Internet, no way for them to be traced or contacted. 

Saul glances over at Walt, who’s sitting on the small bed, apparently lost in thought. If there’s some kind of medical emergency, there’s no way either of them will be able to receive attention in a timely manner. The town is eight miles down the road but, on foot through the snow, it would be far too late. This cabin could be the end of the road for Walt in more ways than one.

Ed turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. He looks straight at Walt and says, “You got two acres up here, lots of woods, nice, warm place. Seems to me just the spot for a man to rest up, think on things. If you look around, it's kinda beautiful.”

\---

As Ed drives off the property, Saul feels the full weight of the solitude of the mountains. There’s no noise outside, and the air is still. Walt still sits motionless on the bed, his gaze lingering out the open door toward the snowy road and Ed’s tire tracks. 

The tension of the silence and the stillness is unbearable.

When Saul claps his hands together, it cracks like a gunshot. “So! I’m gonna see what our month’s supply of food looks like. You want to close the door? Maybe figure out this stove? I’ve never been much of a nature guy myself, not really the outdoorsy type, but hey, we live and learn, right?”

Walt doesn’t reply, but he moves to close the door, slowly, as though still deep in thought. Then he walks over to the big iron stove, regarding it distantly for a moment before muttering, half to himself, “No phone, no internet, no way to contact the outside world from within the cabin.” He looks over at Saul. “Your face isn’t all over the news; it’s safe to assume that you could successfully move about town, discreetly, without incurring too great a risk. You’ll secure a vehicle, make a few pay phone calls to your contacts, or see if there’s a public library, then open a P.O. box…”

“Woah, you’re getting ahead of me here,” Saul interrupts, pausing his inspection of the steaks in the freezer, which Ed had neglected to specify were deer steaks, “What are we talking about?”

Walt sighs with annoyance. “Arranging our hit on Jack Welker and his men.”

“That’s, hah, that’s a ways down the road, don’t you think? Why don’t we just shelve that plan for right now, come back to it when, I don’t know, when you aren’t the target of a high-profile manhunt.” 

Walt waives his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. We’ll wait a month, maybe two, for things to quiet down. I just like to...be prepared. To be active. Doing something productive.” He nods as though reassuring himself and pats the black pork pie hat that he’s taken from his suitcase.

“Look, I’m all for preparation, but don’t go stir crazy on me yet. Plenty of time for that in the coming...weeks.” Months, Saul nearly said, but best to stay positive. He’s not ready yet to face the shitstorm that is Walt with cabin fever. “Hey, you want a Cup Noodles? Looks like we’ve got chicken or creamy chicken. Pick your poison! If you’re feeling creative with that stove, we can add some deer meat to it, Cup Noodles à la Kit Carson, heh heh.” He takes Walt’s silence as assent. 

\---

“Well, it’s not earning any Michelin stars, but the meat gives kind of a woodsy flavor. Not bad, huh?”

Walt gives Saul a tight-lipped smile in between bites of his deer noodles. He’s been able to tune out the lawyer’s incessant chatter, keeping his mind on the tasks ahead as he eats his ersatz dinner. Whether Saul’s reticence on the topic of his contacts back at the vacuum repair shop was due to a lack of cooperation or the severance of his connections remains to be seen. Or perhaps the lawyer is just a coward who fears getting caught. Either way, he has to plan for the contingency that he may not have ready access to a list of mercenaries and hit men. His revenge on Jack Welker could very well be a one-man operation. But if Saul doesn’t intend to be of assistance at some point, why did he agree to come to New Hampshire? To keep tabs on Walt, bide his time, and sell him out? To murder him in his sleep and take the barrel of money? No, that’s not the lawyer’s style. He’s loyal, when he sees something in it for himself. He must know Walt hasn’t lost just yet. And he’s goddamned right about that.

Finishing the last of his noodles, Walt stands up and slips into his parka.

“You can clean up here and get yourself settled. I’m going to look around outside.”

“Great idea,” Saul replies cheerfully. “I’ll start unpacking and, rest assured, I will take no more than my fair share of the cabinet space, which, uh, appears to be at a premium.”

“Yes, that would be appreciated.” Walt hopes and expects that Saul will not require reminders, as Jesse always did, to keep things tidy. Memories of Jesse suddenly bring a flurry of thoughts to Walt’s mind which he isn’t interested in sorting through at the moment. Better to focus on what’s in front of him right now, and on what’s ahead.

\---

Walt steps outside and looks around the small porch. There’s a sizeable pile of firewood, neatly stacked, that should last a few weeks. Winter hadn’t even technically begun yet, but they will definitely require the wood to keep the cabin at a comfortable temperature. Of course, they’ll be leaving before the weather warms up again. 

Circling the cabin, Walt inspects the large tank for the generator’s propane, and gazes up the steep rocky outcropping that leads to the woods. The trees are densely clustered, and the forest is dark and thick with vegetation. There’s very little chance that a curious hiker is going to stumble upon the cabin from that direction. Walt turns, and walks down toward the fence. He stops at the gate, staring down the road. It’s eight miles to town, Ed had said, warning that Walt would certainly be apprehended if he ventured there any time in the foreseeable future. But with each passing minute he thinks of Jack, with Hank’s blood still fresh on his hands as he does god-knows-what with Walt’s money, with Walt’s family’s money. But he can be patient. He can bide his time until he has a plan, an airtight plan of attack. 

Darkness has fallen by the time Walt trudges through the snow back up to the cabin.

\---

Saul is fresh out of the shower, wearing his silk Chinese dragon robe and toweling off his hair when he hears the front door creak open and slam shut. 

Walt’s back.

Hopefully he won’t want a shower any time soon, Saul thinks. He’d stood under the hot water until he’d used up every drop, and it hadn’t been nearly enough for his full routine: letting the warm stream massage his shoulders, washing, jerking off, having a long think. He had kept his promise, though, of saving half the cupboard space for Walt. As a result, the antlers of the deer head have had to stand in for a shirt rack. Acting on a hunch, he had checked behind the picture frames and, sure enough, had located a small safe. It was unlocked and empty, and had the combination written on the inside of the door. He memorized the code and stashed his gun inside for a rainy day. Sure, he wouldn’t be able to grab it if Walt suddenly snapped, but a firearm would be safer hidden than if Walt found it first in that situation.

Walt tosses his hat onto the table and sheds his coat. He’s not looking too good: wheezing and rubbing his cold hands together.

Saul adds another log to the stove before carefully broaching the topic of the single tiny bed. He’s hoping to negotiate taking turns, but between Walt’s cancer and general air of menace, Saul has a feeling he’s going to be consigned to the floor. “Hey, buddy, I think I’m gonna hit the hay. You want to take the bed tonight, we’ll switch it up tomorrow?”

Walt stares at the rainbow of dress shirts on the antlers of the hunting trophy and makes an expression that’s the equivalent of a face-palm. 

When he turns back to Saul, he says, “Just don’t sleep too close to the stove. Sparks could land on the blanket and start a fire.”

“Yeah, no worries. I found a spare set of sheets in the cupboard to sleep on. There’s a fire extinguisher under the sink. And, just f.y.i., there’s also a first aid kit down there, and a can of Raid, so we’re safe on all fronts.” 

Despite the lights being on while Walt unpacks, and the volley of expletives he fires off at the freezing shower, Saul is asleep on the floor within minutes. 

\---

That night, Saul dreams of Kim Nu Suong, her soft hands on his back. She kneads deeply into the knots in his shoulders, working slowly downwards.

“Mr. Goodman is so tense,” she purrs, “Mr. Goodman needs to relax…” 

He wakes up before the happy ending, shivering on the floor, his knees and spine screaming at him. Jesus, he thinks, why is it so cold? Still wrapped in a blanket, he drags himself up and finds that the fire went out during the night. With stiff fingers, he manages to fumble with the wood and the matches to get it burning again, then immediately sets upon getting some water boiling to make the instant coffee, which sounds amazing right about now. Frankly, he’d kill for his Nescafe machine. Christ, when did he get so soft? He used to be perfectly comfortable living in the backroom of a nail salon, yet now the prospect of a few months in a modest cabin feels like getting life without parole in a Somalian prison. Walt snores and rolls over in his sleep. There’s the difference right there. Saul’s only option is to prevent Walt from doing anything stupid long enough to work out a plan. Slipping off into town, contacting the DEA, and cutting a deal is the safe option, but it’s also the big red button that blows up any shot he has at a piece of the ten million dollar pie sitting on a dolly in the middle of the rug. The best he can do right now is to keep the Walt situation copacetic. 

But since when has that worked?


	2. Squirrel in the Hand

Walt wakes up to the pleasant aroma of coffee, frying bacon, and woodsmoke. He rubs his eyes and puts on his glasses. 

“Mornin’!” Saul greets him enthusiastically. “So there might not be a minibar, but at least there’s breakfast in bed.” He holds out a plate. 

Walt takes it, still in the haze of having just woken up. He looks down at the proffered meal. “What’s this?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen bacon before.” Saul is grinning broadly and dressed in the tracksuit that makes Walt seriously question what possessed him to hire this sleazy lawyer to begin with. 

He gestures down at the single, small slice of bacon. “I assume there’s...more?”

Saul sucks in a lungful of air. “Well, I hate to be a bearer of bad news, but things are gonna be a bit...Oliver Twist from here on out.”

“Oliver Twist?”

“You know how Ed said the cabin was stocked for a month? Turns out that was based on single-person occupancy. But hey, a couple of middle-aged guys like us, we don’t want to get paunchy anyway, right? Think of it as an alternative to the Atkins diet.”

Wait sighs. “Saul, I have cancer. The last thing I need to do is starve myself. And this,” he waves the pathetic slice of bacon around, “is not going to cut it.”

“Look, this isn’t the Starship Enterprise. I can’t conjure up a four course meal out of the replicator. If you want more food, we’re going to have to…” he waves at the window, “hunt and gather.”

Walt squints at him. “Hunt and gather? I’m sorry, do you have a rifle and ammunition I’m unaware of? Or perhaps a practical knowledge of edible versus deadly mushrooms and berries?”

“Look,” Saul points at him, “don’t start with me about poison berries, okay, because I think we all know who our resident expert is on that topic.”

Climbing out of bed, Walt advances on Saul. “There is no reason why you can’t walk down that hill to the town and go to a store. You’re a two-bit lawyer from Albuquerque. Your face has not been on the news. The whole reason you’re here to begin with is to make yourself useful.”

“You heard Ed; if either of us leaves the property, he’s not coming back with our supplies, which include your chemo, by the way.”

“And how would he know?”

“I don’t know, maybe has a hidden camera in the gate. Maybe he makes inquiries. His little birds tell him. What I’m saying is that we’ve gotta play it safe for now. Here’s a thought,” Saul holds up a hand, “my brother was a boy scout, okay, he showed me how to make traps and snares, how to tie all the special knots. We could try to catch rabbits, squirrels, birds.”

There’s a long pause as Walt, tensely standing just a couple feet away from the lawyer, considers this idea. “Alright. We’ll try setting some traps. But if we’re unsuccessful, my rations will not be diminished. Whether you choose to walk into town or take your chances with the mushrooms, be my guest. That’s your problem to solve. But I will not starve. Is that absolutely clear?”

Saul’s gaze darts away. “Yeah. Clear.”

“Good.”

“I’m gonna need some wire.”

\---

Saul searches the cabin, and while he finds a small tool chest, he can’t find any wire suitable for the sort of traps he knows how to set. At least he thinks he still knows how to set them. Chuck had been home from college one summer, and their family took a camping trip into the woods. Sensible Chuck had taught his reckless little brother some practical survival skills, although Saul’s memory of that trip is getting a little rusty. It was the last time he could recall having been in the wilderness for more than a day straight.

“Uh, scale of 1 to 10, how attached to the TV are you?”

“If you need parts from it, by all means be my guest.” Walk waives a dismissive hand. “We can always ask Ed for a new one.”

“Great!” Saul scrutinizes the big black box, screwdriver in hand. “Erm, considering you’re the scientist, maybe you oughta do the honors? I just need the big coil thing with all the copper wire. I don’t wanna get zapped.”

“Saul, I’m a chemist. Not an electrical engineer.”

“Yeah, yeah, Bones McCoy. I get it.” Saul slides the TV off the stand and onto the floor. Then he crouches over it and tries to figure out how to get the casing open. It’s slow going, made slower by Walt standing over him, silently watching. 

The casing finally pops open, but Saul gets a small cut on his hand in the process. He drops the screwdriver. “Ow, fuck! Hey, don’t you have anything better to do?” he snaps, shaking the pain out of his hand.

“I’m watching the TV,” Walt deadpans.

“Hey, buddy, I’m the one with the wisecracks around here. Don’t make me redundant.” 

There’s a flash of something in Walt’s eyes that might actually be benevolence. “Okay, get up, I’m going to take over from here.”

Saul’s joints pop as he slowly rises. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“You said it yourself: you’re likely to get electrocuted probing around in a television set that hasn’t even been properly discharged. Now, do you only need the copper wire, or do you want anything else?”

“Just the wire’s fine.” As Saul watches Walt speedily disassemble the TV, it’s clear that he does have considerable skill with mechanics and electronics. He knows Walt’s education and background are somewhat more elite than is typical of a high school teacher, but he wonders just how overqualified Walt really is. He thinks about the bomb at the hospital, Walt’s New Mexico location… holy shit, he might have worked with nuclear weapons for all Saul knows. He wants to ask how Walt wound up teaching kids about liquids, solids, and gasses but has a feeling the answer is probably a sore subject. 

\---

A few minutes later sees Walt and Saul trudging through the snow up the embankment behind the cabin, the latter carrying a whole handful of copper wire and the small tool chest.

“Okay, let’s pick a tree,” Saul says, “one that looks like it might be harboring squirrels.”

Walt points. “That one. There’s a large hole in the trunk.”

“Yeah, that’ll do.” Saul looks around on the ground until he finds a sizeable stick, about three feet long. “My brother, Chuck, he told me that squirrels are like electricity. They’re always looking for the path of least resistance. You prop this stick up against a tree, they’ll use it like a ramp instead of going straight up. So I’m just gonna take this wire, cut it into segments, tie them into little nooses all the way up the stick, and a squirrel that runs up it will probably get caught.”

“You’ve made this kind of trap before?”

“Yeah, this was the first one my brother showed me. He said it was a cinch, real novice level stuff.” He sits down on a rock and starts tying the wire.

“And what did you do with the squirrels you caught?”

Saul chuckles. “Nah, we just built the trap. Proof of concept. We didn’t leave it set up.”

“Would I be right in assuming that you have no experience with cleaning or preparing small game?”

“Look, Walt, let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it. It’s either this, or we supplement our diet with pine needles.”

“Or,” Walt starts helping to twist the wire into little loops, “you could walk into town. I seriously don’t see why that’s a problem, I really don’t.”

“Yeah? Think it through. I show up at a store, shivering, anyone with basic observation skills will be able to tell I walked there. What brings you to town? Where are you staying, asks my friendly checkout professional. Oh, just passing through, I say. And then I’m walking back, straining my knees with forty pounds of grocery bags, uphill, when a friendly local offers me a ride. No thanks, I prefer to walk, I’m training for Kilimanjaro. So now a whole handful of people are curious about the new neighbor, one thing can lead to another, haven’t you ever heard of Murphy’s Law?” Saul knows, as soon as he makes one trip into town, he’ll have opened a can of worms. Walt will turn him into his errand boy, organizing his attack on those neo-Nazis, at which point they can forget about lying low.

Walt drops the subject, and they finish building the trap. Saul leans it up against a tree trunk. 

“We’ll check it in, I don’t know, a few hours, see if we get lucky.” He looks around. “Hey, how big did Ed say this property was?”

“Two acres.”

“Maybe we should walk around it, see if there’s anything interesting?” Saul’s reasonably warm in his tracksuit and parka, and any activity seems preferable to sitting around in the cabin with nothing to do.

Walt, apparently, is of a similar mind.

\---

Two acres is about the size of two football fields, but it doesn’t feel nearly as large as it sounds. Saul and Walt arrive at the fence at the far edge of the property all too quickly. 

Gesturing over the chicken wire, Saul asks, “I wonder if that belongs to anyone, or if it’s just wilderness?”

“Probably wilderness. Ed wouldn’t want to risk us encountering the neighbors.”

“Yeah. Can’t have Wilson peeking over the fence.”

Walt turns away from the fence and gazes back around the property. He points to a cluster of trees back toward the cabin. “Interesting. Those are maple. The majority of this forest is evergreen.”

“Maybe the previous owners planted them. You know, for maple syrup. Hey, all we need is a metal straw and a bucket, and hey presto, pancake brunch.”

Walt looks at Saul with mild surprise. “You certainly are settling in quickly to this change of circumstances.”

“Hey, when in Rome. Ed might come back to find me in a coonskin cap, heh heh, king of the wild frontier, yeah?” Saul tries to keep it light as a shadow of something darker passes over Walt’s face. 

\---

The two men walk back toward the cabin in silence, passing by the trap, just in case they’ve had success already. Remarkably, they catch sight of movement on the stick and, upon coming closer, discover a squirrel stuck in the wire. It appears unharmed, but it darts around on its short leash, the loop around its waist. 

Walt stares at Saul. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“There’s your squirrel. Show me what we do next.” Walt’s tone drips with condescension.

“Uh.” Saul shifts from one foot to the other, still a few yards away from the trap.

“Go on.” 

“Hey, what do I look like, Daniel Boone? What am I supposed to do with...that? I mean, ha, Jesus! When it comes to division of labor, I think you make a better talent scout for the choir invisible than I do.” 

Walt shakes his head. “You’re saying you need me to do it.”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” Walt takes the wire cutters out of the tool set and walks toward the trapped squirrel. It regards him with wide, beady eyes and scampers around to the underside of the stick, only tightening its leash. 

Not knowing what Walt is going to do, Saul averts his eyes, although he’s not sure whether it’s out of compassion or squeamishness. He hears a quiet snap. Risking a tentative glance back, Saul is surprised, and frankly relieved, to see the animal free and scampering off into the woods.

Walt walks toward him, and when he speaks, his tone carries more than a hint of taunting. “You never had a plan. You just make things up as you go along. That’s how you’ve always operated.”

“Okay, I don’t think we’re still talking about the squirrel.” The wire cutters in Walt’s hand are dredging up old memories, but Saul tries to shove the anxiety back down as Walt gets closer. Jesus, hasn’t this guy ever heard of personal space? 

Walt speaks evenly, but his voice has dropped an octave. “From now on, we’re doing things my way. You’re going to walk into town tomorrow, buy what supplies we need, and get an overview of what services are available. We’ll proceed cautiously, but proceed, nonetheless.”

Saul wants to argue, but he’s forced to admit that a shopping trip is the only reasonable option. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. Town it is. So you can cool it with the intimidation. But if Ed abandons us, that’s on you.”

The corners of Walt’s mouth pull into a semblance of a smile as he shakes his head. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you.”

Saul breaks the tension with a finger gun. “You don’t want a lawyer who backs down easily.”

The sun drops below the mountains as they make their way back to the cabin, shadows lengthening behind them.


	3. As the Crow Flies

Saul’s violent shivers wake him up again, although this time he can sense that dawn is still hours away. Shit, he completely forgot to put another log on the stove before going to bed. Well, ‘going to floor,’ anyway. He pulls the blanket up around his face and brings his legs to his chest, curling into a ball in an attempt to retain heat. He really should just get up and relight the stove, but he’s too cold and tired to bother.  
  
Things are really slipping out of his control. Not that he ever had any control of the situation since they arrived. To be honest, Walt had been completely right that Saul was just making it up as he went along. And while he scrambles to find the path that will lead to the greatest rewards, Walt will be impatiently moving forward with his hare-brained scheme to bring down Welker, never mind that the feds are actively on the prowl. Walt will be the death of them both.  
  
And there’s the old bastard, snoring away contentedly in his infinitely more comfortable bed. Stupidity really is bliss, apparently. Okay, so maybe Walt’s not stupid, merely blinded by...greed? No, not just greed. Arrogance. Hubris.  
  
Screw this.  
  
Saul gets up off the rug and climbs into the small bed.  
  
“Hey, shove over,” he whispers hoarsely. Walt stirs and rolls closer to the wall, but doesn’t wake up.  
  
Saul feels himself thawing out immediately against Walt’s body heat. Is it a little weird? Yeah, but life in general has been so weird lately that snuggling up to ol’ Heisenberg is just the icing on the cake. This is what happens when you get in bed with the drug trade.  
  
\---  
  
Light streams in through the windows. Saul wakes up first, or at least he can assume he does, since he hasn’t been shoved back onto the floor. He grabs his robe and slides out of bed quietly before Walt stirs, and then slips into the bathroom to take care of his morning wood.  
  
It’s only Day 3, but the lack of privacy is already starting to wear on him. As he languidly strokes his cock, he thinks of sexy, blonde Cristal, the exotic dancer, grinding into his lap, sliding her hands down his chest, nibbling at his neck. But as Saul’s mind sloughs off the last of its sleepy haze, intrusive thoughts begin to cloud his fantasy. A nationwide manhunt. Ten million bucks just a few feet away and god-knows-how-much more in the care of Hitler's inbred disciples. A gun in the safe. An unpredictable meth genius who may, or may not, be a bona fide sociopath. There’s a lot of moving parts in this clusterfuck, to be sure, but that’s what his optimistic nature prefers to call an opportunity. Or he might just be headed straight off a cliff.  
  
His brain needs a break. He forces his thoughts back to Cristal (accent pointedly on the second syllable) and her firm, round ass. But he imagines her rougher now, pushing him down as she rides his cock fast and hard.  
  
_Yeah baby,_ she moans, _from now on, we’re doing things my way. You’re just here to be of use to me._ Her voice takes on a gravelly quality. _You’re not gonna finish until I say you can finish. Do I make myself absolutely clear?_  
  
Saul comes with a long shudder, one hand clutching at the flat bathroom wall. He tosses the kleenex into the trash. Christ that was weird. His brain truly has a gift for casting a wide net for inspiration. Maybe that’s what keeps him creative? Blessing and a curse. It’s usually better not to analyze these things too deeply. He brushes his teeth and shaves off three days’ worth of stubble.  
  
Walking back into the cabin’s main room, Saul finally glances at the clock. It’s pushing eight; much later than he thought. He’s going to have to get on the road pronto if he hopes to be back before dark. That will be a little dicey already, depending on the steepness of the hill and the slipperiness of the ice. It will probably take at least four hours to get to town, and closer to five for the return trip.  
  
Saul puts on his warmest pants, although they’re only the white chinos he used to wear for golf. He’s glad he never got rid of his University of American Samoa sweatshirt; that will help keep him warm under his parka. He packs a thermos of baked beans and a few protein bars in his rolling suitcase, which will be invaluable for getting a few weeks’ worth of canned goods back up the snowy slope.  
  
Walt is up now, standing by the kitchen counter and eating a tin of peaches.  
  
“I’ll give you three hundred dollars out of the barrel. That should be enough for food and the other supplies on the list. If you see any books that look interesting, those would be appreciated. History, or a novel.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll haul a box of Hardy Boys up the mountain, just for you.” Saul has to admit, though, that Walt asking for reading material is a step in the right direction. Maybe he’s finally resigned to settling down for a few months.  
  
Saul’s tennis shoes seem woefully inadequate for the hike, but he can buy a decent pair of boots in town, and some thicker socks. Unfortunately, the cabin doesn’t even have a radio, so there’s no way of knowing the weather forecast. But as Saul steps outside, he can see that the sky is clear all around, so it doesn’t look like he’ll be caught in a snowstorm. By any objective standard, it’s a nice day. Picking up his bright blue suitcase, he heads down toward the gate.  
  
\---  
  
Walt finishes his peaches in the first true solitude he’s had in a few days. It’s a relief to have Saul gone until evening, although the talkative lawyer seemed unusually laconic before he left.  
  
He rinses the syrup out of the empty tin and tosses it in the trash bag. They can burn food scraps and paper, but Ed will have to take care of the rest.  
  
Walt gets dressed, makes the bed, folds up Saul’s blankets and slides them underneath it, then sets about looking for a project.  
  
Saul never finished cleaning up the remnants of the television set from the previous afternoon’s misadventure, so Walt decides to sort through the scraps to see if any parts might be useful to salvage. It isn’t long before an idea comes to him. If anyone happens to wander onto the property, he would like to know about it. Maybe he can rig up some type of alarm system. He spends a few minutes sorting through the parts, mentally working out the design for a simple, straightforward device that will buzz loudly when the front gate is opened.  
  
Walt starts the work of re-wrapping what’s left of the copper wire. He’s always been a cerebral sort of person, self-contained in his own mind and comfortable with the abstract and the theoretical. But he also enjoys working with his hands, building things. It really is deeply satisfying to watch the ideas in his mind come to life in the real world, to see tangible results. He thinks back to when he first embarked on this venture, not even two years ago. In some ways, the time before his cancer diagnosis seems like it was ages ago, part of some other life. Yet in other ways, the time has slipped by so quickly he barely noticed its passage. He has fond recollections of some of his early triumphs, how easy it was to impress his buyers with the purity of his product, being able to put his knowledge to work toward a constructive, lucrative end.  
  
Back in Ed’s basement, Saul had suggested that Walt turn himself in. Obviously, that course of action would result in his family being denied the fortune that was their due. But beyond that, there was a fundamental horror built into the very concept of prison. It isn’t just the usual dangers and privations, Walt reflected, gangs and thugs, assault and rape, the myriad smaller discomforts. No, his real fear of prison stems from the fact that it’s the end of the road. At that point, he would no longer be able to do any of the things that make life worthwhile. There would be no chance to make any sort of mark on the world. He wouldn’t be living; he would just...be. And that type of non-life is absolutely unacceptable.  
  
\---  
  
Saul spent the first mile trying to get into the rhythm of walking. The snow had forced him to carry the suitcase, which he switched from one hand to the other every few minutes. The slope was steeper than he expected, and walking downhill was very hard on his knees. It was cold, to be sure, probably around thirty degrees, but the lack of wind plus the sunshine made it bearable.  
  
Around the second mile, he had reached a properly plowed, maintained road with a gentler grade. He was able to roll the suitcase from that point. There wasn’t much to see, just more of the same trees and snow, the road winding endlessly ahead, and occasional, small roads branching off toward, he could only assume, other cabins. He wondered who else lived up in these mountains, or if there were any permanent residents at all. Most of the cabins were probably vacation rentals for skiers. Timeshares, maybe. He has fond memories of the year he tried being a timeshare salesman back in Cicero. It was fun, he made a few quick bucks, but it ultimately couldn’t hold his attention over the long term. He had needed more variety. Well, that was one wish that certainly came true.  
  
Now he figures he’s over halfway to town. Saul is not in good shape by any means, but walking on the road doesn’t present any particular terrain challenges. He keeps a sharp lookout for black ice, though. He doesn’t want to accidentally revisit his Slippin’ Jimmy days. Not too many cars come by; maybe one every ten or fifteen minutes. He’s sure he looks strange pulling a suitcase down such a desolate road, but no one has stopped to try to pick him up.  
  
It’s an incredibly boring journey. One foot in front of the other, on and on, as the miles slowly pass. He spots several squirrels, but no other wildlife, no buildings or any scenery of particular interest. He tries to hum the entirety of Pink Floyd’s _Dark Side of the Moon_ album, seeing if he can reconstruct it in his head. Marco had once told him it’s pretty trippy how well that album lines up with _The Wizard of Oz_ if you listen to the music while the movie plays muted. He tries to imagine the two concurrently as he continues down the snowy road.  
  
\---  
  
It’s well past one o’clock when Saul reaches an old wooden sign that reads, “Welcome to Sherman’s Bluff.”  
  
“Okay,” he says aloud, “So where is it?” Besides the sign and a slight widening of the road, there’s no other indications of civilization.  
  
He walks about five hundred more feet before he comes to the first building, a small motel called Alpine Court that proudly offers color TV and ‘clean rooms’. There’s a similar motel on the opposite side of the street, the Chieftain Lodge. There’s probably quite a story that could be told about their no-doubt bitter rivalry across the decades. He continues walking, passing a bar and a graveyard, until he comes to a general store. A huge, carved wooden bear beckons from the parking lot. They probably do have bears in these mountains. He hadn’t even thought about that.  
  
Saul rests on the bench outside the store, eating one of the protein bars. He’s exhausted, his feet are very sore, and the cold air makes his nose run. When he gets back to the cabin, he’s definitely going to take a long, hot shower and sleep until noon.  
  
The general store is a little rustic, but it clearly has a wide selection of all the types of things a person would need when staying in a cabin in the woods. About half the floor space is devoted to fishing poles, tents, inflatable rafts, and other gear. Saul grabs a couple of hand baskets and starts loading them up with canned food: soup, beans, corn, tuna. He’s always hated the taste of canned vegetables, but he picks up a couple of bottles of scotch to help wash them down.  
  
Moving through the aisles, he finds a pair of hiking boots in his size and some wool socks. The cabin only has one old lantern, so it would also be prudent to buy a good flashlight and some batteries. Lots of batteries.  
  
The far edge of the wall is the toys and games department. Saul calculates he still has a few bucks to spare, so he picks up a deck of cards and a Scrabble board. He’s always been more of a Monopoly guy, but trying to bankrupt Walter White doesn’t seem like a relaxing way to spend an evening.  
  
Saul proceeds to the checkout. The guy behind the counter has a short grey beard and a plaid flannel shirt, and is in the process of shelling a bag of peanuts.  
  
“Heya,” he says. “This the whole shooting match?”  
  
Saul starts unloading the baskets onto the counter. “Yeah.” He’s not going to make any witty quips, not going to engage the guy in conversation or be too memorable.  
  
The cashier picks up the first item to scan and looks at it. “Ah, creamed corn. My wife used to always serve this with ham dinner. I never developed a taste for it myself. It makes a good cornbread, though.”  
  
“Hmm.” Saul pretends to be very interested in a rack of sunglasses.  
  
The cashier pauses again in order to ask, “What brings you to town?”  
  
He’s apparently unable to talk and ring up groceries at the same time. “Oh, just passing through.”  
  
“Where are you staying?”  
  
“My buddy’s got a conversion van,” Saul explains. “We’re driving around the area.”  
  
“You been out to the lake?”  
  
Shit. He hasn’t even seen a map of this place. “Not yet.”  
  
“You should. There’s a lovely spot right on the north side. Lots of ducks. You do any shooting?”  
  
_Come on,_ Saul thinks at the guy, _just five more cans, you can do it._ “Nah, I’m too much of an animal lover. I’m just a gentle soul, I guess.”  
  
“You like birds?”  
  
“Oh sure.” Don’t get in too deep, Saul tells himself, he might try to quiz you. “I’m not any kind of expert, you know, I don’t actively go bird-watching. But my ex-wife had parakeets. Noisy bastards.”  
  
The cashier gestures with the last can. “You know, since you’re into birds, I have a book you might be interested in taking a look at. Hang on.”  
  
He reaches under the counter and roots around in a drawer for a long minute. “Here we are. _Grant’s Guide to Birds of the White Mountains._ My brother is a painter, and he contributed all the illustrations. Every one of which is in color, by the way. That’s over two hundred pictures.” He hands the book to Saul.  
  
“Oh, well he’s quite talented. Lots of detail on the, uh, plumage.”  
  
“Keep it, keep it! That’s for you. No, really. I have fifty more copies.” The cashier finally rings up the last can and starts bagging the purchases.  
  
Saul stops him. “Hey, that’s okay. I’m just going to carry them in this.” He unzips the suitcase and starts loading it up as quickly as possible.  
  
“You don’t have too far to go, right? Let me give you a hand with all that.”  
  
“Oh, no that’s fine, thanks. It rolls.”  
  
The cashier is still hovering. “Now that you have that book, you and your buddy need to come up to the lake. I have a cabin there, north shore, plenty of extra binoculars. If you’re sticking around for a few days, why not come by tomorrow? Looks like clear skies.”  
  
Saul zips up the suitcase and hauls it upright. Jesus Christ does it weigh a ton. “Hey, thanks for the invite. Um, we’re probably heading up to Canada. We’re waiting on news from my aunt. She’s very sick, lung cancer, so the plans could change. Things are a bit...up in the air. So hey, you might see me back here sometime. Thanks for the bird book, though. I’ll definitely keep the ol’ peepers open, and, yeah. See you around!” Saul tries not to look like he’s hurrying as he strides out of the store.  
  
Once Saul gets back to the town’s welcome sign, he sits on its rocky foundation and changes into his new shoes. This is the first time he’s ever worn hiking boots, and he feels very much like he’s in costume as someone else. Who knows, by the time Ed returns he might be wearing a bucket hat and a cargo vest.  
  
\---  
  
The afternoon drags on as Saul walks back up the road, the heavy suitcase clattering behind him as the wheels rumble along the uneven asphalt. The weather has held, and the exertion of walking up the slope soon compels him to shed his parka.  
  
He’s been walking for about a mile when he hears a vehicle coming up the road behind him. It slows to a stop, and a young man leans out the window of the green Jeep.  
  
“Hey man, you want a ride?”  
  
“Aw, no thanks! I need the exercise.” Which is abundantly clear by how out of breath he is. His hair has plastered itself to his forehead despite the cold.  
  
“You sure? How far are you going? There’s nothing up here for several more miles.”  
  
“My buddy’s driving down to meet me. I’m expecting to run into him any minute.”  
  
“Okay.” There is an evident look of concern on the guy’s face as he starts to drive away. “Well, stay safe!”  
  
Jesus, Saul wants to say, I don’t look that pathetic! But as he continues up the steepening incline, he has to admit that this walk was the ill-conceived love-child of baseless optimism and Walt’s aspirations of dictatorship. Sixteen miles roundtrip in one day. This is the last time he’s letting that bastard push him around. Sure, they really did need the supplies, but Saul’s nothing if not reasonable. Walt should know he doesn’t have to get all up in his face to convince him to do what has to be done anyway. If Walt thinks he can use him to fuel his power trip, he has another thing coming.  
  
\---  
  
The sun has dropped below the tops of the mountains by the time Saul reaches the halfway point, and the sky is completely dark when he turns off onto the smaller road that leads to the cabin. He remembers it’s about a mile to the gate, but the snow will force him to carry the suitcase. And that’s no easy task when it’s filled with cans, his legs are about to give out, and one of his hands is occupied with the flashlight. The temperature has already dropped at least fifteen degrees since the afternoon, and a breeze is picking up.  
  
Saul makes it about twenty feet before he has to set the suitcase down and rest. He continues at a snail’s pace, starting and stopping, for nearly an hour, covering only a half-mile at most. Finally he lays the suitcase on the ground and sits on it, trying to catch his breath and slow his heart rate. Maybe he should leave the suitcase in the bushes and come back for it in the morning. Yes, that’s a good idea. First, though, he’ll break open that scotch and warm himself up a little. He finds it amid the food and other supplies, unscrews the cap, and takes a few deep drinks. Yeah, that’s what Saul’s life has come to: drinking whiskey straight from the bottle on the side of a dark, freezing mountain. He’d love to close his eyes and take a nap where he sits, but he has a feeling he might never wake up again. Putting the bottle away, he slides the suitcase into some underbrush, not that anyone is going to come by to steal it, and continues up the road, much less encumbered. The flashlight doesn’t illuminate very far ahead, but it’s enough to ensure that he doesn’t wander off the road.  
  
Finally, at around ten o’clock, he sees the gate. Tears of exhaustion and relief spring to his eyes. Sixteen miles. Sixteen miles in the snow, with a suitcase (okay, fifteen and a half miles with the suitcase) and improper hiking attire. He’s taking the bed tonight, and that’s not up for debate. Walt can toss and turn on the lumpy rug, see how he likes it.  
  
He stumbles up to the gate, unlatches it, and closes it behind him.  
  
He never even saw the dog.  
  
The next thing Saul knows, he’s flat on his back, a huge black beast standing on his chest, barking and snarling. Oh shit.


	4. Owls in the Night

It was a very good thing Saul had his parka zipped up, or else the dog’s teeth would be sunk into his neck, rather than into the coat’s fluffy lining. Saul is frozen in fear on his back, his hands up as if he’s stuck between placating the dog and shoving it off of him. The animal snarls viciously, shaking its head back and forth.  
  
An unfamiliar voice comes to the rescue.  
  
“Chaucer! Heel! Chaucer, get over here.”  
  
The dog immediately releases his prey and trots over to his master. Saul takes a moment to exhale in relief before scrambling up on shaky legs. That certainly woke him up.  
  
“Sorry about that. He can get a little exuberant. Now do you mind telling me what you’re doing on my property?” The man is holding a kerosene lantern and standing at the threshold of a large shed. He must have been doing some work inside it when Saul came through the gate, its walls blocking out the light.  
  
“Uh,” Saul stammers. “I was out for an evening walk in the woods, just along the road. I didn’t realize how quickly it gets dark, what with the high mountains. Yeah, stupid I know. I guess I made a wrong turn and mistook your gate for mine,” he chuckles and shakes his head, “Very sorry for the disturbance. G’night.” He turns back toward the road.  
  
“Hold on!” The man hurries toward him, holding up the lantern. “Mine’s the only place on this slope. You must be a couple miles away from home. Let me drive you back.”  
  
The forest is pitch black and the temperature is dropping. Saul’s mind invents a dozen excuses to walk-- he has a phobia of cars, he’s a radical environmentalist, an internal combustion engine constitutes ‘building a fire’ which is forbidden on the Sabbath-- but any excuse at this point is going to sound suspicious as hell. A different plan pops into his head.  
  
The lantern illuminates a gleaming patch of ice in the tire tracks. Saul takes a step, slips, and bam! Flat on his back. Yep, Slippin’ Jimmy’s still got it.  
  
He lays there, feebly moaning sounds of pain and broken expletives. Although he plays up the dramatics quite a bit, he feels a bruise forming around his shoulder blade.  
  
The stranger is at his side in an instant. “Are you okay? Here, let me help you up. You went down hard!”  
  
Saul lets the man support him as he rises slowly to his feet.  
  
“I’m Ron, by the way.”  
  
“Gene. Nice to meet you,” Saul manages.  
  
“Here, let’s get you inside.”  
  
Bingo.  
  
\---  
  
Saul is soon seated on the couch in the living room of the spacious, two-story cabin. It’s clean, well-decorated, and has a wrap-around porch. The walls are more window than wood. He wonders if Ron is alone up here, since a cabin this size probably has at least two or three bedrooms. If Saul can get him to let him spend the night, he can slip away quietly while Ron is asleep, and leave a note behind offering some explanation so he doesn’t come looking for him.  
  
“You look like death warmed over,” Ron says, holding out a patchwork blanket. “Do you want some coffee? I have a pot nearly done brewing.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks.” It’s only after Saul wraps the blanket around his shoulders that he realizes how much he’s shivering. The log in the fireplace is at the tail end of its smouldering, and Saul feels his eyelids getting impossibly heavy as he stares as the glowing embers.  
  
When Ron returns with the steaming coffee, Saul drinks it down fast, getting the caffeine into his system. He’s in real danger of passing out and sleeping until morning. Maybe trying to sneak away after Ron goes to bed is a bad idea. He can’t walk two more miles in the dark, anyway. He probably can’t even walk half that. He’s only human.  
  
Chaucer, the German Shepherd, lays on the rug with his head on his paws, watching him warily.  
  
Ron sits down in the recliner, catty-corner to Saul. He’s an older man, probably retired, a bit jowly but in good shape. He leans back in his chair and slurps his coffee. “So, you like going for night hikes?”  
  
“I’m getting into bird-watching, actually. I went out when the sun was starting to set, hoping to spot some...owls. But they’re real foxy bastards. They can spot you a mile away, from any direction, and slip away without a trace. They’re the El Chapo of the bird kingdom. Well, I had seen a nest down the road earlier, so I thought, hey, I’ll come back at nightfall, do a little reconnaissance. It has to come home sometime, after all. It’ll be an easy sighting. Duck soup, right? Well, I waited around for a couple hours, but no dice. So I’m getting cold, I’m about to pack it in, when I hear some hooting in the distance. I start following it, thinking I’m heading back toward my place, and now, well, here we are.”  
  
“Hm! Well, that’s why I’m more of a fishing man, myself.” Ron drinks his coffee, and the next minute passes in silence. Finally he stands up. “How are you feeling, Gene? Ready to head back?”  
  
Saul makes a show of having a hard time getting to his feet, gripping his knee. “Argh, just gimme a minute. Whoo. There we go. I guess I hit the ice a little harder than I thought.”  
  
Ron looks at him with concern. “If you want to spend the night, you’re more than welcome. You’ll have to stay on the couch, though. My family’s coming tomorrow, and I just changed the beds. They’re all pretty OCD about stuff like that.” He shrugs: what can you do.  
  
Saul sits back down and makes a puppydog Jimmy McGill face. “Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t want to put you out any more.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it! Do you need another blanket, or are you good?”  
  
“This is fine. Perfect, actually.” Saul toes off his shoes and lays down on the couch, resting his head on a throw pillow.  
  
“Comfortable?”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks.” The coffee, evidently, had absolutely zero effect. He’s asleep before Ron finishes washing the mugs.  
  
\---  
  
Saul awakens to bright morning light pouring through the picture windows. He’s so warm and comfortable sprawled across the plush cushions. He hears the deep sound of water moving through the pipes. The shower must be on upstairs...  
  
This thought triggers the whole cascade of memories from last night, and Saul is suddenly wide awake and springing off the sofa. Every muscle in his body is unbelievably sore and stiff, but he’s moving like shit through a goose as he scrambles into the kitchen to find a pad of paper. Grabbing a pen, he scrawls, “Ron: Thanks for your hospitality. Sorry for inconvenience. Have fun with family. -Gene.” He sticks the note to the fridge with a magnet, then slips out the front door.  
  
Chaucer barks at him as he jogs to the gate, but he’s soon on the other side and sprinting down the road. The last things he wants at this point is for Ron to come after him in the truck and offer him a lift.  
  
The sloping road and adrenaline carry Saul easily downward as he builds up speed, and he has to be especially careful not to stumble or slip again. It isn’t long before he spots a hint of blue in the bushes: his suitcase. He picks it up and, yeah, it still feels like it’s going to rip his arm out of its socket, but the weight is a lot more bearable than it was last night.  
  
His jogging pace slows to a trudge, but another fifteen minutes brings him back to the main road. There’s a hairpin turn just uphill, which he would have remembered from yesterday’s descent. That means he overshot his turnoff in the dark. He sets the suitcase down and rolls it behind him. He only has to walk a couple hundred feet down the hill before he recognizes what is unmistakably the small road up to the cabin.  
  
Hauling the can-laden suitcase up the snowy drive is backbreaking work, but he manages, slowly but surely, spurred on by the knowledge that this is his last mile. From now on, anything else they need, Ed is going to have to bring. Saul is never making this trip again. Squirrel hunting is preferable to this nightmare.  
  
As he walks, he rehearses a simple, believable story for Walt, which he mentally fleshes out and embellishes with a variety of details, in case he’s asked any specific questions.  
  
He finally reaches the gate, sweaty and out of breath. It makes an ear-splitting buzzing noise when he unlatches it. That’s new. Walt’s been keeping himself busy, apparently.  
  
And there’s the old devil himself, marching toward him down from the cabin.  
  
“Where were you?”  
  
Saul exhales an exhausted breath. “It’s great to see you too, pal.”  
  
He follows Walt inside and deposits the suitcase on the rug before dropping onto the chair.  
  
“You were gone all night,” Walt says, still waiting for an explanation.  
  
“Yeah Dad, but we kept it above the waist, scout's honor.”  
  
“Did you sleep outside? Did you attract any attention?”  
  
Saul flashes a cocky smirk. “Hey, that's the cost of celebrity.”  
  
Exasperated, Walt clenches his fists and pleads, “Will you be serious for one minute, one minute of your precious time, and answer the question? Did people talk to you; were there any incidents?”  
  
“No! Jesus!” Saul spreads his arms. “I stayed off the radar. I walked into town, bought out half the store, then started heading back up the mountain. But that is not an easy trek with...fifty pounds or whatever of canned goods, so yeah, it took a while. When it got dark, I found a trail shelter and slept at the picnic table. Probably still have a few woodlice camping out in my pants. Oh, and here,” Saul gets up and retrieves the bird-watching book from the suitcase and hands it to Walt. “Merry Christmas, honey. Don’t say I never getcha anything.”  
  
The sharp sound of a buzzer cuts off whatever reply Walt was going to make. Both men stare at each other for a beat, and then hustle out the front door.  
  
\---  
  
Ron is standing at the gate, his pickup truck parked just outside it.  
  
He waves. “Hey Gene! That’s quite a doorbell you’ve got. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe. I would’ve driven you back, y’know.”  
  
Walt quickly recovers from staring open-mouthed. “How did you find us?” He asks, his smile pleasant but his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  
  
“Gene was lost, said he lived around here. The only other road this mile leads up to the old quarry, so I figured this had to be the place.”  
  
“Well,” Walt’s gaze flicks toward Saul for a moment before settling back on Ron, “It’s a relief to know we have such kind neighbors. Would you like to come in?”  
  
“Thanks, but I really can’t stay.”  
  
“Just for a minute. I have some extra fish. We can’t eat it all, and would like to send you home with some.”  
  
Saul tries to subtly shake his head at Ron. _Just turn around and go. Just leave._  
  
“Fish sounds delicious, thank-you! I guess a minute won’t hurt.”  
  
Ron follows Walt up toward the cabin.  
  
Saul remains rooted in place. Oh god, Walt’s going to murder this poor guy. Obviously something has to be done about Ron; he’s bound to see Walt’s picture in the news sooner or later. They can’t just let him go. But jumping straight to murder? Having a body on their hands? That’s just bad business, for one thing.  
  
“H-hey!” He calls. “Uh, this is a little awkward…” Saul hurries toward Walt and Ron as they reach the cabin. “I don’t really know how to explain this delicately. My buddy here, his wife’s a real controlling bitch. Abusive, even. Violent. Pulled a knife on him... Anyway, he’s up here trying to lay low for a while. And he and I, we’re...have you seen Brokeback Mountain? We’ve been hiding our relationship for months now. It’s a real tangled web, heh. What I’m getting at is, could you keep this all hush-hush? Just forget you ever saw us up here. We have some money, if--”  
  
And then there’s a belt around Ron’s neck, and the leather strains audibly as Walt pulls it tight and Ron’s hands scrabble desperately to free himself. His legs give out and he falls to the porch, Walt following him down, not letting up for a moment.  
  
Saul cringes at the sight, horrified, as Ron thrashes and chokes.  
  
Then it’s over.  
  
Saul looks up to see Walt sliding the belt off Ron’s neck as he stands over the lifeless body, his panting breath visible in the cold air.  
  
“Aw Jesus,” Saul groans, running a hand over his face. “Why didn’t...we could’ve…”  
  
Walt strides toward him, murder weapon in hand, and Saul flinches as he roughly grabs the front of his shirt.  
  
“Why did you lie to me?” he demands through clenched teeth.  
  
“I didn’t think he’d follow me home!” Saul shouts back. “It was stupid, okay? It was dark, I was lost, I went to the wrong house. He let me sleep on the sofa. Why would he come looking for us? Why would he do that? Oh god!” Oh no. He just remembered: “The note!”  
  
“What note?” Walt, still gripping his shirt, gives him a shake.  
  
“I left a note on his fridge! And his family’s coming home today. Oh, and the flashlight! I dropped my flashlight when his dog attacked me.”  
  
Walt shoves the lawyer away and rapidly paces toward the corpse and back. “The note, the flashlight, is there anything else? Did you leave anything else behind?”  
  
“No, no, that’s all. Well, I didn’t fold up the blanket.”  
  
“And when did he say his family arrives?”  
  
“I don’t remember. This morning? Afternoon?”  
  
“Think, think!”  
  
“I don’t know!”  
  
Walt is furious, obviously, but the anger in his eyes is tinged with fear. “Drive his truck back. Clean up the house. Then stay off the road; walk back through the woods. Go!”  
  
Saul hurries toward the truck and hops into the driver’s seat. Aw shit. He gets back out.  
  
“Where are the keys?”  
  
Walt roots around in the dead man’s pockets, finds the keys, and tosses them back over the gate. Saul fumbles the catch, scrambles to pick the jangling ring up off the ground, gets back in the truck, and starts it up. He makes a tricky three-point turn and heads down the slope, faster than is strictly prudent considering the terrain.  
  
\---  
  
Saul arrives at Ron’s house a few minutes later. He drives cautiously up to the gate, his heart feeling like it’s going to burst through his chest, but he doesn’t see any other vehicles. He gets out, opens the gate, and drives the truck onto the property.  
  
He parks, then runs back to the entrance, searching quickly through the snow to find his flashlight. After a few seconds he locates it, pockets it, then runs up to the front door, where he pauses. That’s right; Chaucer is inside. Hopefully that demon hound remembers him fondly enough to not rip his throat out. With shaking hands, he slowly opens the door and peers inside.  
  
“Hey Chaucer,” he calls tentatively, “hey boy! Good dog!”  
  
The German Shepherd woofs at him, but doesn’t attack. Saul tries not to make any sudden movements as he enters the house.  
  
He could really use Mike right about now.  
  
The first order of business is to take the note off the fridge. He snatches it down, crumples it into his pocket, and glances around the kitchen. It looks like Ron started a pot of coffee before he left. Saul turns off the machine and dumps the hot brew down the sink. Next he sprints into the living room where he folds the patchwork quilt and fluffs up the pillow. As he’s about to leave, a thought occurs to him: he needs to make it look like Ron went off into the wilderness on a hike. It would be best if he could leave a note, but he has no idea what Ron’s handwriting looks like, and he’s not about to waste time on that.  
  
Acting quickly, Saul runs upstairs. He locates the master bedroom and flings open the closet. He grabs a heavy coat, a knitted cap, and a pair of trekking poles.  
  
The sudden sound of a car engine makes his heart leap into his throat. He glances out the window. A red SUV has pulled up in front of the house. Fuckfuckfuck… A sliding glass door leads onto the balcony. Wasting no time, Saul crosses the room and tries to open it.  
  
It’s stuck. Or locked. He hears a woman’s voice downstairs calling, _“Ron! We’re here! Ron honey!”_  
  
Wait, there’s a latch, oh thank god. He gets the door open and slips out.  
  
The balcony has a flight of stairs leading to the lower porch, and Saul runs down them as quietly as possible, clutching his armful of hiking gear. He can only hope no one looks out the window.  
  
He clambers over the porch railing but catches his foot under the beam. He goes sprawling face-first into the snow. Panicked, he gathers up the gear and half runs, half stumbles into the woods.  
  
\---  
  
In the two miles back to the cabin, Saul thinks about nothing at all except moving forward.  
  
\---  
  
As he approaches the gate, the smell of burning flesh assaults Saul’s nostrils.  
  
Ron is laid out on a simple pyre a safe distance from the cabin, the flames engulfing his body. Walt is hazy through the smoke, his hard eyes staring from underneath his black hat at the corpse turning to ash before him.  
  
Saul approaches the pyre wordlessly and takes his place by Walt in silent memorial.  
  
Some minutes pass before Walt speaks. “The fire will heat the ground below it, thawing the dirt to a depth of three or four feet. We can then dig a hole to bury the bones. Those too,” he nods toward the hiking gear piled at Saul's feet.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Did you have any problems at the house?”  
  
The pyre begins to cave in as the burning wood disintegrates into powder.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Did the family return?”  
  
A breeze picks up, blowing smoke into Saul’s face. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns away from the sooty air.  
  
“No.”  
  
Some bird of prey wheels and screeches overhead as the flames grasp at the bright blue sky.


	5. Wolf by the Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went back and added chapter titles. These two assholes finally get around to that Scrabble game.

If Walt had to choose one word to describe Saul’s mood over the next 24 hours, it would be ‘petulant.’ All the firewood had been used up in building the pyre. Considering that Saul was the one responsible for this debacle, it naturally ought to fall to him to chop more logs. But he had whined and complained, made his excuses. Not that there was any rush. Once the missing person report was filed, there would likely be helicopters circling the area and inquiries being made. It would be best to stay inside, keep the windows blacked out at night and the stove off for a few days to avoid smoke.  
  
But it was, as is so often the case, the principle of the thing.  
  
Thus, Walt spends his evening with a relaxing glass of scotch and a book, attempting to develop an appreciation for the finer points of difference between the Blackburnian Warbler and the Blackpoll Warbler, while Saul spends his evening locked outside the cabin with an axe.  
  
Walt is reasonable; he never expects more out of people than they’re capable of, as long as they apply themselves. He doesn’t blame Saul for getting lost; after all, it was dark and he didn’t have a map. Walt himself has had plenty of personal experience with being stuck out in the elements. And if Saul’s story is true about how he had no choice but to sleep on the neighbor’s couch, then Walt can’t blame him for that, either. But there’s the rub: he can’t believe anything Saul says. The lie about the trail shelter was a grave breach of trust. God knows what kinds of incidents occurred in town that Saul has conveniently forgotten to mention. Why he ever thought he could trust that squirrely conniver in the first place is completely beyond him.  
  
Walt rinses his glass and looks out the kitchen window. Saul is making a valiant effort to chop the firewood, considering that he has probably never swung an axe before in his life. Over the past few hours, he’s managed to slice a few segments off a large fallen bough, and is now attempting to split the resultant logs into pieces small enough to fit in the stove. Walt takes his glass back out of the sink and pours another finger of scotch while he stands at the counter. If he’s honest with himself, he has to admit there’s something deeply satisfying about putting Saul in his place.  
  
\---  
  
Saul brings the axe down in a clean sweep, expecting the log to split. But, once again, the blade gets stuck a couple inches deep into the wood, and he has to hold the log down with one foot while he see-saws the axe back out. Rinse and repeat.  
  
He glances up to see Walt watching him from the window. Subtlety has never been that guy’s strong suit, no matter how much he likes to think it is. And is that the scotch Saul busted his ass getting up the mountain? Walt’s sipping it with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. All he needs is a big white cat to complete the picture.  
  
Saul ignores him and keeps chopping.  
  
His mind drifts back to his childhood, to the time that one grifter came to his dad’s store. What was it he said? Sheep and wolves, kid.  
  
Let Walt ride out his power trip. Let him get so high on ego he’s clawing at the spiders under his skin. Let him think he’s cowed Saul into being his bitch.    
  
They say wolves don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep. By that token, they don’t lose sleep over the opinions of other wolves, either.  
  
With numb fingers, he tosses another log on the pile and hopes that Walt will unlock the door once it starts to get dark.  
  
\---  
  
By the afternoon of the next day, the official search for Ron has begun. Saul and Walt stay indoors, the stove gone cold, as they hear the choppy rumble of a helicopter passing overhead at regular intervals. But with no vehicle or other possessions outside, there is little to indicate their cabin is even occupied. So far, no one has come to make inquiries.  
  
Saul is in the kitchen with a can opener. “Dole Fruit Cocktail. My mom loved this stuff. It was a staple; the whole bottom row of our food pyramid.”  
  
Walt doesn’t glance up from his book. “Just the tuna is fine. Set the crackers out, too.”  
  
“So. It’s a real page-turner, huh? In Chapter 8, the albatross is revealed to be...eh but I won’t spoil it for you.” He never would have guessed that Walt would find _Grant’s Guide to Birds of the White Mountains_ such an engrossing read.  
  
“This is actually very informative. Look,” he holds the book open for Saul, “the appendix contains information on local weather patterns and maps of the area, even the smallest roads and trails. If you had flipped through it, I’m sure you would have found it quite useful the other day.”  
  
“You know, Dr. Phil once did a special on passive-aggressive behavior, just sayin’.”  
  
Walt taps a page. “The old quarry that was mentioned, it’s two miles up the mountain from us.”  
  
It doesn’t go over Saul’s head that Walt purposely avoided specifying who mentioned the quarry. “If you’re thinking of upgrading to granite countertops--”  
  
Walt interrupts, “ _Old_ likely implies _abandoned_. It might be worthwhile taking a look at it, as a possible...staging area, a place to store a vehicle or equipment that we don’t want Ed to see. Really, it could be a useful location for any number of purposes.”  
  
“Yeah, because when you’re just a national fugitive, you’re willing to lay low, but once you’re both a national fugitive and a local murderer, now it’s suddenly the best time to re-open the Terminator plan. Got it.”  
  
Walt sets the book down. “If you intend for the two of us to live out our natural lives without ever leaving this cabin, then no, we will not need a vehicle. Or there’s also the option of continuing to make sixteen-mile trips on foot. Because that worked out so well for you the last time.”  
  
As if on cue, the helicopter makes its pass overhead.  
  
Saul fires another verbal volley, but he’s not sure what target he’s aiming at. “I gotta say, you make a good argument! You’re one-for-one so far in the bodies to trips ratio. Keep it up, and you’ll need that quarry for a secret burial ground.”  
  
The shot lands. Walt’s flat facade shatters. “I’m sorry, but do you think I wanted to kill that man? Do you think I enjoy murder? It had to be done; you can appreciate that. And as I recall, you’ve never been above recommending killing when you can hide behind colorful euphemisms and physical distance.”  
  
Saul spreads his arms wide. “Hey, we had options, is all I’m saying. We could have paid him to keep his mouth shut.”  
  
“What’s to stop him from turning us in after he has the money? Or from coming back for more?”  
  
Saul shrugs, the energy draining out of him. It’s been a hell of a week. “Look, he just seemed like a standup guy. That’s all.”  
  
Walt returns to his state of calm as he settles back in his chair and starts scraping canned tuna over his crackers. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I cooked?”  
  
“Meth?”  
  
“It’s a long story, I’ll spare you the details, but we ended up with a man chained in Jesse’s basement. We shackled him to a post with a bicycle lock. He begged, pleaded with me to either kill him or let him go. There was no way I could have released him. He knew too much, would have come after my family. And yet, I just couldn’t seem to work up the-- the nerve to put him out of his misery. So I kept him there, feeding him sandwiches, cutting the crusts off the way he liked.” He gives a mirthless chuckle and shakes his head at the memory. “You understand, I looked for excuses to keep him alive, offered him every opportunity to give me one good reason, just one. But ultimately, in that type of situation, it’s them or you. So you can hide from that simple fact, prolong the inevitable and compound your problems, or you can do what needs to be done.”  
  
Saul sucks in his lower lip and returns to choosing something for lunch. “Yeah, well. I guess that’s show business for ya.” He wonders if Walt even realizes what would happen if he took his advice.  
  
\---  
  
A few nights later, Saul dreams vividly of Ron’s corpse going up in smoke, of his dim vision of Walt beyond the flames. The setting is different; Saul sees them all in the desert, himself in one of his bright outfits, the weather searingly hot. It’s a hellscape of high saturation. And he’s hogtied in the rocky dirt, lying on his side, terrified by a vague knowledge that he’s going to be murdered next. Walt walks through the flames toward him, unhurt. He crouches down, and Saul feels the scrape of his bristly goatee as Walt growls into his ear, _Do you want to go nowhere?_ Saul intuitively understands the question, and shakes his head. Now Walt’s hand is grabbing his face, pushing him down into the dusty earth, the sharp gravel digging into his cheek. _Good. You know who you are then_ , Walt says. Saul looks at the pyre. _What about him?_ he asks, as though the man can still be saved. Walt ignores the question, his other hand moving to Saul’s chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt even as Saul feels his necktie constricting.  
  
Walt prods Saul awake with the tip of shoe, snapping him out of the dream.  
  
“Christ,” the lawyer mumbles, his mouth dry, “what time is it?”  
  
“Half past six.”  
  
“What’s the big rush?” He yawns, blinking his eyes into focus.  
  
Between bites of fruit cocktail straight from the can, Walt says, “I want us to be back from the quarry at a decent time. We should leave in half an hour.”  
  
It’s too early in the morning for an argument, so Saul pulls himself up and shuffles into the bathroom without protest. He splashes his face with cold water while waiting for the taps to heat up enough to shave, and tries to shake off the strange dream. Whose side is his brain on, anyway?  
  
\---  
  
The morning is especially cold, and the sky is pale grey. Still, Saul supposes that he can’t blame Walt for wanting to get off the property. His face is wearing a congenial smile, the first one Saul has seen in a few days. Two acres is a paltry allotment for a guy who thinks in terms of empires. That’s why they had to keep Napoleon on a big rock in the middle of the ocean.  
  
Saul sniffs as he readjusts his scarf, feet crunching in the dirty snow as he and Walt head down to the gate. “Got your phaser set to stun, Mr. Spock?”  
  
“Hm?” Walt is disconnecting the buzzer from the gate.  
  
“Abandoned quarry, right? The classic sci-fi set of choice.”  
  
Saul walks briskly down the road, trying to ignore that his knees are on fire. Walt has been pretty sedentary since they arrived, so he’ll be stiff and have a hard time keeping up. Maybe Saul can wear him out before they get to the quarry, and they can call the whole thing off. Walt has a strong sense of self-preservation when he can do something proactive, but it all goes out the window when his one job is to do nothing at all.  
  
Walt’s breathing sounds a bit labored, but he maintains the pace.  
  
“I wonder when rabbit season and duck season and all that starts,” Saul muses.  
  
“You’re thinking about a way for us to acquire firearms without raising suspicions?”  
  
“Actually, I was just wondering when it is and isn’t safe to be tromping through the woods. Like that time Dick Cheney bagged a lawyer.”  
  
“Duck season runs to December second, Geese until the twelfth.” At Saul’s surprised look, Walt raises his eyebrows. “I read it in a book.”  
  
“What about deer? Bambi’s mom was shot in the snow, if I recall--”  
  
Saul stops talking as Walt is hit by a coughing fit. He’s doubled over, one hand braced against a tree trunk, as his violent cough wracks his whole body. He pauses to catch his breath, and the attack seems to have passed, but then he wheezes and continues to hack and choke for at least a minute.  
  
He’s finally done and stands still, panting, supported by the tree.  
  
“Hey buddy,” Saul ventures, “maybe we should head back? Call it a day?”  
  
“No, I’m fine.”  
  
“The sky’s looking a little dark. Let’s check out the quarry when the weather’s better.” He tries to put a hand on Walt’s shoulder, but gets batted away.  
  
“I want to keep moving. The fresh air is good for my lungs, anyway.”  
  
They only travel another hundred yards or so before Walt’s cough once again gets the better of him. He has to sit down on a rock to recover, his head in his hands.  
  
“I don’t know whether it’s the cold, or the exertion, that’s bringing on these attacks,” he says while trying to catch his breath.  
  
Saul folds his arms and holds back a shiver as the wind whips through the trail and snowflakes begin to fall in light flurries. “Hey, uh, I can continue up to the quarry, if you want to catch up when you’re feeling better,” he suggests, knowing Walt’s pride won’t care for that idea.  
  
He sighs and looks at the ground, as if lost in thought for several moments. “No. We’ll head back for the day, go tomorrow when the snow stops.”  
  
Saul nods, and they make their way back up toward the cabin. Dodged that bullet.  
  
“Woah, woah, shit!” Saul whispers, grabbing Walt by the jacket and pulling him behind a wide fir tree. A car is coming up the road. It’s too early for Ed to be back.  
  
The two men hold perfectly still as they watch the red SUV drive up to their gate and park. A woman climbs out and walks to the fence.  
  
_“Hello! Excuse me, is anyone here? Hello!”_ she shouts.  
  
Saul recognizes the voice. He’s not going to forget that one any time soon. “Ron’s wife,” he hisses under his breath.  
  
Walt begins to twitch, but he pulls himself inward and holds his hand over his mouth, trying desperately not to cough.  
  
_“Ron! Ron! Are you here?”_ She unlatches the gate and walks forward, slowly, onto the property.  
  
Quietly, Saul slips away from the tree and shuffles, hunched over, to the next dense clump of evergreens where he can get a better view. The woman is looking around, walking up to the cabin. She knocks at the door.  
  
_“Hello! Does anyone live here?”_ She moves away from the door and peers through the windows. It’s a damn good thing they didn’t leave the fire burning in the stove. She might see a few clothes, but that’s all. The woman circles the cabin, then wanders off behind it, calling her husband’s name intermittently.  
  
Some minutes pass as Saul chews on his lip. Finally, she walks back down toward the gate, gets back in her vehicle, and drives away.  
  
After a cautious minute has passed, Walt creeps out from behind the trees. “See, it’s a good thing we went for a walk.”  
  
“Yeah,” Saul chuckles as relief washes over him, “healthy life habits. You know, maybe we need a guard dog.”  
  
\---  
  
The next day is no better in terms of weather, nor the week after that. The soft flakes that had impeded the quarry trip were only the harbingers of the cataclysm of white that greets Saul when he pulls back the curtains on the kitchen window.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, “it’s like _The Thing_ out there.”  
  
He throws another log on the stove and fills the kettle with water for instant coffee. He’s sure the temperature must be well below freezing outside, but the cabin is reasonably toasty. Saul had washed the laundry in the sink yesterday, and now wet clothes dangle from the ceiling’s open beams, occasionally dripping on the towels spread out underneath.  
  
“Want some bacon? Fruit?”  
  
Walt, wrapped in his blankets and still asleep with his mouth open at ten in the morning, doesn’t respond. He’s been sleeping an awful lot lately. And his skin looks thinner and paler, a bit sallow. Saul has noticed, though, that he still shaves his head each day and grooms his goatee, like he’s trying to hang on to his old identity. Honestly, Saul can’t blame him. When he looks at Walt, asleep and sickly, he feels a twinge of...not guilt. Regret, maybe? He doesn’t like weak and docile Walt any more than he likes that monster Heisenberg. As Saul waits for the kettle to boil, he tries to figure out what it all means. All this desolate isolation has him in a much more introspective frame of mind than he likes.  
  
Why should Saul care about Walt? There’s no love lost between them; at best they’ve risen to a resigned camaraderie, on a good day. A dying Walt can only mean that Saul is in the home stretch; he’ll be able to start a new life without worrying about the ghosts of the old one. But for now…  
  
As long as Walt was Heisenberg the empire mogul, Saul was Heisenberg’s consigliere, his Tom Hagen. He had asked for a slice of that pie, and he had got a slice of that pie. Maybe Walt is nothing but trouble, the biggest pain-in-the-ass client he had ever had, but right now he’s his only client, his only connection to his former life. His real life, with loud suits and louder commercials, wheeling and dealing, slaying it in court. Whenever Walt would burst into his office with some new crisis, Saul would always give him a hard time, a little good-natured ribbing. But Saul loved it, being the one to solve the problem when millions of dollars were on the line. It was his own natural, chemical-free high.  
  
“Hey, buddy!” Saul shakes Walt gently by the shoulder. “Rise and shine! Shake a leg! Up and at ‘em! Wake up and smell the coffee!”  
  
Walt, sufficiently annoyed, opens his eyes and moans, “Oh god.”  
  
“I’m not lying. Here,” Saul holds out a mug. “And there’s one more can of mandarin oranges left. I didn’t hear you call dibs, but hey, I’m a generous guy.”  
  
Walt pulls himself upright with a sputtering cough. “Did you shovel the front walk yet?”  
  
“And risk your nefarious schemes being discovered by curious girl scouts?”  
  
Walt sighs, not much fire in him today.  
  
“Anyway,” Saul continues, “At the risk of repeating myself, up and at ‘em! I’m in kind of a Scrabble mood today.”  
  
\---  
  
Walt looks down at the game board, unimpressed at the word Saul played. “ _Bono_?”  
  
“Yeah. Y’know, like _pro bono_.”  
  
Saul is much too smug for Walt’s liking. The cold morning has found the two men seated on the floor in front of the wood stove, trying to stave off boredom with a game that feels more like a chore with each passing day, at least as far as Walt is concerned. Saul seems to be enjoying himself as usual, the bastard.  
      
“That’s a latin word, Saul. It’s not allowed.”  
      
The lawyer gives a dismissive shrug. “Hey, it’s common in English speech. And the rules say no foreign words. English derives from Latin, so it could be argued that, by that score, the majority of English is foreign.”  
      
Walt sighs in exasperation. “English derives as much from French and Germanic languages as it does from Latin. And this is an insipid argument. All I ask is that you play by the rules.”  
      
“I am, okay? Jesus. There’s nothing foreign about a Latin phrase when it’s in the legal vocabulary. Look,” Saul extends his hands in a conciliatory gesture, “you can use whatever scientific words you like-- enzyme, cation, neutrino-- I won’t make a peep.”  
      
Walt feels the week’s frustrations coming to a head. “This is not a negotiation.” He abruptly switches around the last two tiles of Saul’s word. “There. _Boon. Boon_ is an acceptable, valid English word. Now let’s move on.”  
      
Saul shoots him a cocky smirk. “So you forfeit.”  
      
“What?”  
      
“In chess, if you touch the other player’s piece, it’s an automatic forfeiture. I think the same rule applies here, in principle.”  
      
Walt gapes at his opponent for a moment before composing himself. “That is not a real chess rule, Saul, and this is not a chess tournament. This is two old men playing Scrabble on the dusty floor of a cabin.”  
      
“Hey, speak for yourself, but I’m not signing up for AARP just yet.” Saul brushes his combover back into place. “And either you accept that you forfeit, or _bono_ stands.”  
      
Walt snatches up the little golf pencil. “Fine, fine. I will note down your eight points, taking into account the triple letter bonus. Yes, eight points, a real boon. Truly, I am in awe of your skill at this game. Very, very impressive.” Walt thinks back to Jesse and all the times his stupidity got the best of Walt’s patience. At least Jesse’s drug-addled brain gave him some excuse; Saul seems to be goading Walt on purpose.  
  
Walt surveys the board for a moment before spotting an opportunity. “Ah. _Oxygen_. On a double word makes...thirty-four.” The score is about even again.  
      
Two spaces above the _o_ at the end of _bono_ is a triple-word-score opportunity. Saul places his tiles.  
      
Walt is silent for a moment after the lawyer takes his turn. “ _Quo_?”  
      
Saul nods in self-congratulation. “Yeah, _quo_ , like... _quid pro quo_. And whaddya know, it’s thirty-six points!”  
      
Unbelievable. The level of obnoxious behavior that Saul is inflicting on him is absolutely unbelievable. Something in Walt snaps. He reaches across the board and grabs Saul roughly by the front of his tacky purple shirt and growls, “Is that how you want to play this? Drive me slowly insane in this godforsaken wilderness, watching me waste away while a gang of worthless scum usurps my life’s work? You’re going to wait me out, slip away with what’s left in that barrel? Is that your game?”  
  
  
Walt punctuates his tirade by shoving Saul backward into the kitchen cabinets. The lawyer hits his head with an audible thump, but he’s crawling to his feet in a second and backing toward the door, putting distance between himself and Walt. Walt’s got that intense, cold look in his eyes again. He may be a cancer patient who was bickering about the rules of Scrabble not one minute ago, but how Walt sees himself is far more important than who he really is. And right now he’s seeing himself as Heisenberg, and he’s not messing around.  
  
“Is that what you think? That I’m just here to wait for you to die? Jesus!” Saul spreads his hands, indignant. “I’m a professional, okay? And you’re still my client. So believe me, I want you to get your money back. This arrangement benefits us both, right? _Quid pro_...uh...I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. Ed gives us the all-clear, you ship Welker off to his great compound in the sky, you and I settle up, and we go our separate ways. Until then, can we just de-escalate this a little?”  
  
Walt doesn’t look ready to de-escalate. He steps forward. “Settle up? You think more of my money is going to you? That money is going to my family, do you understand? To my family! I brought you here because I expected you to be of use, to provide me with assistance in going after Welker. But you have given absolutely _no_ indication _whatsoever_ that you intend to be of any help, to be anything other than completely useless and a goddamned nuisance!”  
  
Well now that’s just blatantly inaccurate. “I’m the nuisance?” Saul jabs an accusing finger into Walt’s chest, “You’re the one who keeps wanting to sneak off thither-and-yon, get us both caught, murder the villagers in your Freddy Krueger hat.”  
  
Walt grabs his shoulders and shoves him up against the wall. “Ron’s wife,” he growls.  
  
Saul tries to squirm out of his grip, but it’s a losing battle. “Yeah, what about her?”  
  
“How did you know that woman was his wife?”  
  
Oh fuck. She’d called for ‘Ron honey’ back at the house, but Saul hadn’t wanted to tell Walt about that little incident. “I just assumed...I mean, it could have been his sister, girlfriend. Y’know, lady gets out of her car and shouts ‘Ron, Ron,’ there’s only so many possibilities there, right?” Saul’s heart is pounding and his mouth has gone dry.  
  
“You said she was his wife before she called his name. You’d encountered her before,” Walt’s voice has dropped into a lower, colder register.  
  
“What? No! She- you’re remembering wrong. She walked up to the gate and called for him, I figured, naturally, that--”  
  
One of Walt’s hands leaves Saul-- perhaps to hit him, perhaps to stifle a cough-- but Saul doesn’t wait to find out. He shoves Walt backwards, but Walt catches his arm and twists it behind him. Saul gets one foot caught around his ankle, and both men tumble to the floor in a tangle of struggling limbs. Walt grapples Saul onto his back and climbs on top of him, scrambling to get a hold on his shirt as Saul tries to push him off. Pinning the lawyer down, with his hands fisted in his collar, Walt shouts in frustration, “What do I have to do to get the truth out of you, just once?”  
  
“Look, just calm down,” Saul pleads, raising his hands in surrender, “Calm down and I’ll explain it!” He wants Walt to get off of him as quickly as possible. All this manhandling has gotten Saul hard in his pants, and there’s no way Walt hasn’t noticed, given his position. You know your life has gone very wrong, Saul thinks, when the only human contact you get is fighting with Walter White. Whether or not he can blame it on loneliness and adrenaline, he doesn’t want Walt to know the effect that rough treatment has on him.  
  
Walt tightens his grip. “This is your last chance to tell me the truth.”  
  
_Or what, you’ll cough on me?_ is what Saul wants to say, but he thinks better of it. They say a wounded bear is twice as dangerous, or something like that; maybe it’s a shark. “Fine! Fine! I was upstairs in Ron’s house, she came home when I was taking stuff from his closet. I heard her calling, she never saw me, I went out the back, off the porch. That’s all, hand to God. Now let me up, okay?”  
  
“If that’s all, why did you feel the need to lie?”  
  
This conversation would be so much easier if Walt wasn’t on top of him. He tries to sit up, maybe Walt will get the hint, but it’s no use. “Because if you thought there was a chance I’d been seen, you’d have gone over there, killed that woman, anyone else. There were a couple of kids over there, Ron’s grandchildren, I don’t know. You’d have murdered them.”  
  
“Is that what you think of me?” Walt gives him a rough shake, “You think I’d murder a whole family, in cold blood, over a suspicion? Is that what you’re suggesting?”  
  
Saul glances away. “I...wasn’t in much of a hurry to find out.”  
  
“Jesus,” Walt shakes his head. “What kind of a monster do you think I am?”  
  
“Well, you know,” Saul chuckles and squirms uncomfortably under the other man’s weight. “You’re Heisenberg, the Big Kahuna, right? Take no prisoners. Do what’s gotta be done.” Poison children. Hire Nazis. Strangle the neighbors.  
  
There’s a flicker of satisfaction in Walt’s eyes as he gazes down at his lawyer. The moment lasts a little longer than is strictly necessary. This is what Walt wants far more than money, Saul thinks, this feeling of power, control. Suddenly it all makes much more sense, why this chemistry teacher would decide to enter the drug trade. Maybe it never was about the money, not really. Does Walt realize that, or is he still stuck in self-delusion? And if he were finally honest with himself, would he be willing to end all this?  
  
Finally, Walt releases him and stands up. Saul stiffly follows him to his feet, his lower back a little sore.  
  
Walt’s outburst appears to have put him in a more positive frame of mind. As though nothing had happened, he walks back toward the stove and looks down at the Scrabble board and scattered tiles. “ _Toque_.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You had the letters for it. It would have been worth six more points than _quo_.”  
  
Saul shrugs and laughs dryly, his nerves not quite back to baseline yet. “But then I’d be playing by the rules, right? Where’s the fun in that?” He goes to the counter and pours a glass of scotch while Walt settles himself back on the floor.  
  
“Have a seat,” he says, organizing the tiles, “I would like a rematch.”


	6. Blind as a Fox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should maybe warn here for a bit of mild dub-con?

When Ed returns, snow tires straining to get him up the unplowed hill, Saul is standing on the front porch to meet him. The truck parks in front of the cabin, and the extractor climbs out, glancing around at the unchanged surroundings.  
  
Saul strides down from the porch and gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I gotta say, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Ed reminds him a lot of Mike: unflappable, professional, a straight-shooter. All that really matters, though, is that he’s someone other than Walt. Speaking of which--  
  
“Hey Walt, the Wells Fargo Wagon’s here. Come see what it brought ya!”  
  
Bundled in his coat and scarf, Walt exits the cabin and nods to Ed.  
  
The extractor asks, “Holding up okay, Mr. Lambert?”  
  
“Yes. Quite well. I feel...quite well. It’s all this mountain air, it’s been very therapeutic.”  
  
Saul can’t help but chuckle; you would think a shadowy drug kingpin would be a half-decent liar by now. Not that his words make a difference; anyone who looked at Walt would notice his gaunt face and papery skin.  
  
But Ed rolls with it. “Well, that’s good to hear. I brought you your chemo. I can help administer it, too.”  
  
The three men carry a stack of boxes from Ed’s truck to the living room. There’s enough supplies to last both Walt and Saul for a month now. The food is essentially the same: cans of soup and vegetables, jars of syrupy fruit, dry rice and noodles, beef jerky, peanut butter. Saul gets to work shelving it all while Ed unpacks Walt’s chemotherapy. Walt settles into the chair beneath the hunting trophy, the bag of yellowish fluid dangling from its antlers.  
  
At the bottom of the last food box, Saul is pleased to find a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Pall Mall, not his favorite, but he’s certainly not going to complain. It’s been ages since he’s had a smoke, and he doesn’t even have a chip to show for it.  
  
As Ed sets up the IV drip, Saul sticks the cigarettes into his jacket pocket. “Hey, I’m going to get out of your hair for a while. ...Uh, poor choice of words.”  
  
Walt rolls up his sleeve. “While you’re outside, chop a few more logs.”  
  
Saul closes the door behind him and wanders around to the side of the cabin, his feet sinking into the deep snow. He lights up and takes a long drag, savoring the warmth at the back of his throat. He can’t recall ever seeing Walt smoke, or smelling it on him, so he’ll probably keep his greedy hands away. Plus, there’s the whole lung cancer thing. Saul wonders if Walt used to smoke, or if he spent too much time around dangerous lab chemicals. Maybe he has mesothelioma and could have joined a class action suit.  
  
After a few minutes, Saul drops the spent butt into the snow and gets to work on chopping wood, a chore that he’s almost gotten the hang of. He wouldn’t recommend that anyone stand behind him when he swings the axe, but he hasn’t injured himself. Yet. Anyway, Walt’s chemotherapy will probably take a couple of hours, and Saul would prefer to stay outside.  
  
It’s not that he’s squeamish necessarily, at least not about the needle and the bag of sickly yellow liquid dripping into Walt’s veins. Okay, so maybe needles do make his skin crawl, just a tad. But ultimately, Walt’s chemo treatment simply isn’t something he wants to be around. The idea makes him uncomfortable in ways he can’t quite pinpoint. The image that keeps flashing through his mind is of his mother, frail and decrepit in the hospital bed. Not how he likes to remember her.  
  
\---  
  
The minutes tick by as Saul slowly adds pieces of wood to the stack in front of the cabin. Finally, the door opens and Ed steps out, Walt waiting in the doorway behind him. He beckons Saul to follow him to the truck.  
  
“Here, I have one more box for you.”  
  
Saul slides a heavy plastic bin out of the backseat. “What’s this?”  
  
“The rest of Walter’s chemo. There’s a schedule in there, follow it. Some dietary recommendations. The full course will be about five months.”  
  
“Woah, are you telling me--”  
  
“That I won’t be back? That’s right. You know why.” Ed pauses before climbing into the truck. “And if you want to keep sneaking into town, take my advice and at least grow a mustache.”  
  
“Who’s gonna recognize me out here? I don’t need to look like someone’s Uncle Ernie.”  
  
Ed shrugs in non-response and hops up into the cab.  
  
“Hey, hey,” Saul holds the door open and lowers his volume. “It’s-- Walt’s been staying here, okay, he’s on a short leash. There’s no risk to you in coming back. Hell, if I thought things were going south, I’d be the first one--”  
  
“It’s nothing personal. Good luck out here.” The extractor gently, but firmly, pulls the door closed and drives off through the snow.  
  
\---  
  
As Saul walks back into the cabin, the look on Walt’s face is practically smug.  
  
Saul points behind him to the tire tracks.“You’re not mad about this?”  
  
“No. We took a calculated risk. And we have the fallback plan of buying a car, which we would have needed anyway.” Walt occupies himself with unfolding a large stack of newspapers on the wooden table, sorting through back issues of _The Albuquerque Journal_ , a few copies of _The New York Times_ , and a handful of local papers, including _The Weekly Mountaineer_ , whatever that is.  
  
Saul picks up one of the Albuquerque papers. It’s just not the same without his full-color, red and yellow advertisements. “News from the homefront, huh?”  
  
Walt ignores him as he flips quickly through a more recent edition of the same journal. About halfway through, he jabs his finger at an article. “Look!”  
  
Saul glances down at the title, “Heisenberg Trail Goes Cold,” and shrugs. “Sounds like good news to me?”  
  
“This paragraph.”      
  
Saul reads aloud:  
  
_“The trail has grown cold in the search for drug kingpin Walter White. Over a month into the national manhunt, authorities at the DEA have not given up hope - especially as Heisenberg's classic "blue meth" continues to appear in the Southwest and Europe.”_  
  
He considers the implications. “You think Pinkman is alive and cooking?”  
  
“There’s no way that Welker’s gang of cretins would ever be capable of manufacturing my formula,” Walt growls. “Not a chance.”  
  
Saul paces for a moment, lips pursed, before he turns back to Walt with a big grin and his arms outstretched. “Hey, maybe this is a good thing? If Pinkman is working for Welker, that means that A: he’s not running back to the Feds, and B: Welker’s sitting pretty with the status quo. Blue Sky is a goldmine! If your money is burning a hole in their pocket, that’s no-problemo for you, because they’re raking in enough dough to replace it with. And then some! Their compound is your interest-earning bank account. Oscar Mayer doesn’t have to work in some Upton Sinclair shithole stuffing sausages all day; you can keep your product on the market, let your name live on in the hallowed halls of infamy, while you enjoy your golden years surrounded by nature’s bounty.” He hopes Walts will see reason, not do anything that will get him caught and Saul implicated.  
  
Walt holds up a hand, squinting in confusion. “I’m sorry, but what are you suggesting? That I should take some kind of comfort, some resigned solace in the fact that Welker is enriching himself with my product and my partner, while I sit here and rot? Because that’s what it sounds like you just said.”  
  
“No, ha ha! You’re missing the key ingredient. Obviously, you’re going to want to, uh, make a withdrawal from that bank account, at some point in time. But what you’re not going to want to do is Rambo in there and put a bullet between the eyes of your golden goose. Take a healthy share of what’s rightfully yours, but leave enough capital behind to keep them in business. Consider it an investment. And then, down the road--”  
  
“They killed my brother-in-law. Is there something you don’t understand about that? They killed Hank.” There’s something besides anger in Walt’s voice, more than grief: the scratch in his throat of raw helplessness. “That’s what those people-- those animals-- did. And you want me to just,” he sweeps his hand, “wipe that away? Clear the slate? No, I don’t think so, Saul. I can take my money back, but it won’t settle the score. I won’t stop until Jack Welker and every last one of his men are dead. And I don’t ever want to hear you ‘advising’ me otherwise again.”  
  
\---  
  
_“Saul. Saul.”_  
  
The lawyer wakes up to the sound of his name being whispered into his ear, not in panic, not like there’s an emergency, just sharp enough to get his attention. Still half asleep, he only murmurs, “Hm?”  
  
“Why are you in my bed?”  
  
“Stove went out. It’s fucking cold.” He’s on his back, having rolled over in his sleep, leaving Walt very little space in the sub-twin size bed. It’s more like a cot, really.  
  
He’s slipping back into a dream when Walt speaks again. “I read an interesting article in the paper today. Besides the one we already talked about.”  
  
Saul opens one eye to see Walt propped up on an elbow. The small lamp is on at the foot of the bed, dimly illuminating the room. “Oh yeah?”  
  
“Mrs. Sharon Campbell,” Walt begins, his tone suggestive of a quotation, “reported seeing a man, whom she cannot confirm or deny was her husband, fleeing their back porch on the morning she discovered his disappearance. You were careless, Saul.”  
  
“Sounds like she barely saw me, if she couldn’t tell me from Ron.”  
  
Walt hovers over him. “You just...ran down the back stairs, not even bothering to check through the window first? Not taking the most basic precautions?”  
  
“Jesus, Walt. It’s what, two or three in the morning? You need an argument to sleep? Most people just jack off.” Saul closes his eyes and turns away, the clearest possible way to communicate _shut the fuck up_.  
  
But Walt grabs the top of his hair and painfully yanks his head back toward him. “You lied about every single aspect of this debacle,” he growls, “You lied at every turn despite being given ample opportunity to explain yourself. Did you think I would forget that? Did you expect to be forgiven so easily?”  
  
“Hey hey, let go! We already talked about this. What more do you want me to say?”  
  
Suddenly, Walt’s expression changes into a smile of satisfaction. “I was just testing a theory, which it seems I’ve confirmed.” He nods toward the way the sheet is tented at the level of Saul’s crotch.  
  
The lawyer closes his eyes. _Shit._  
  
Walt still hasn’t let go of his hair, his voice taking on the tone of a taunt. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice your pathetic thrusting when I had you pinned to the floor?”  
  
“I was not!” Saul _knows_ he wasn’t. “I was just trying to get you off. Of me. Jesus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”  
  
Walt chuckles, guttural and dry. “You could barely restrain yourself from grinding against my leg.”  
  
“Look buddy,” Saul fails to smooth out the needy rasp in his voice, “you’ve got one hell of an imagination, I’ll give you that. And twice as big an ego. Freud would--”  
  
And then Walt’s hand is on his cock, squeezing roughly over his pajamas. “This is what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” He gives his thinning hair another hard yank.  
  
“Oh god, Walt.” He meant to sound indignant, but the way it came out… Okay, yeah, he’s screwed. But why not; really, why not? Yeah, it’s Walter Fucking White, but this guy’s been invading his fantasies almost since they got here, so _why the hell not._  
  
Walt pulls the sheet back and shoves his hand under Saul’s lounge pants and boxers, seizing his shaft tightly. His voice is low and gravelly and directly in Saul’s ear: “Is this why you take every opportunity to irritate me, to goad me? You want me to be rough with you?”  
  
Walt probably-- definitely-- has some game here, some angle, but at the moment Saul doesn’t care what it is. He’s fully hard in Walt’s punishing grip. “Where’s all this coming from, anyway?” he stammers.  
  
“I think it would be better if you didn’t talk right now.” Walt keeps up a steady rhythm on his cock for a minute or so. But then as if to prove a point, he stills his hand, relaxing his grip just enough that Saul can thrust into his fist.  
  
Saul’s cock twitches but he tries to hold himself back for the sake of his dignity, until Walt starts to lightly drag his thumb across the underside of his shaft, and Saul can’t help but squirm into the friction.  
  
Walt squeezes again, tightly, rougher than Saul ever is with himself, eliciting a wince. “Is this what you like?” He twists his hand as he slides it up and down.  
  
If he keeps up his rhythm, Saul could come from this. His only response is a strangled moan as he feels the building pressure.  
  
Walt gazes down at him, his eyebrows raised. “What I would like, is to hear you beg.”  
  
Saul knows he must look completely undone, lying back with his mouth half open. “What?”  
  
Walt slows the speed of his hand to a pace intended to frustrate. “You heard me. I want you to beg me for it.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Walt is barely moving his hand at all now. “I’ve heard much better than that out of you. Do you remember when I had you on your knees in the desert? By an open grave?” Walt smiles at the memory, “what a pathetic coward you were, whimpering and pleading.”  
  
Saul squeezes his eyes shut as he thrusts his hips upward into Walt’s slackened grasp. “Oh fuck, Walt. Please! What do you want out of me?”  
  
Walt pumps his leaking cock a bit harder, but it’s not _enough_. “A little more than that.”  
  
“Okay, okay, I’m begging you. Don’t stop!”  
  
Walt moves his hand faster, breathing heavily with exertion as he smiles down at his lawyer. “Say my name.”  
  
“Yeah-- like that. Oh god please, Walt.” Saul groans in desperation as Walt’s hand slows down again, until he realizes what he wants. Because _of course_. “Heisenberg! Please. Jesus, fuck, let me come. Heisen--” And Walt jerks him through his orgasm. It’s nowhere near the best he’s ever had. It’s rushed and desperate and raw. But it’s enough.  
  
Walt wipes his hand on Saul’s boxers as he slides it out of his pants. “There.” He nods at him. “Do you feel better now?”  
  
Saul doesn’t know what to make of that question, but then, he’s not sure what to make of anything that happened in the past ten minutes. So he gets off the bed and stumbles into the bathroom to clean himself up and change his pants. When he comes back out, Walt is lying back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. Saul stands there awkwardly for a moment. “So...What was all that about?”  
  
“Why don’t you relight the stove and go back to sleep.”  
  
Saul runs a hand down his face. This guy; this fucking guy. “Yeah, okay, I get it. Evidently you’re not one for pillow talk.” He hurries to get the fire going again and then get back to sleep, once more consigned to the floor.  
  
\---  
  
But it seems that fate has ruled against Saul ever getting an unbroken eight hours, as he’s soon awoken once more. This time, by an unintentional kick to the ribs as Walt trips over him in the dark as he rockets into the bathroom.  
  
Saul attempts to tune out the sound of Walt puking his guts out, but the door is hardly a barrier. It’s not exactly _Get Smart_. He hopes Ed brought some kind of anti-nausea medication with the chemo. At least they have a few cans of ginger ale at the back of the fridge.  
  
After a few minutes of trying to go back to sleep with a blanket around his head, Saul hears a different sound. Walt is quieter now, and he has to strain his ears to confirm what he suspects: the man is crying. Sobbing, actually, in ragged gasps. He didn’t even bother to turn on the sink. Saul sighs and scoots his blankets toward the middle of the room to keep the path clear. He’s going to need to keep a close eye on Walt; who’s to say what he might do at this point.


	7. Canary in a Granite Mine

Saul is always thankful for the five seconds or so after he wakes up, when sleep still clings to his mind and the events of the previous day are a big question mark. Gives him time to adjust. He remembers last night soon enough, however, and shuts his eyes again with a groan. Every time he reaches a point in his life where he thinks he’s transcended the possibility of embarrassment, he’s proved wrong in new and unexpected ways. But on the other hand, if Walt wants some kind of...ongoing arrangement, Saul wouldn’t object. He has to eke out enjoyment wherever he can in this frozen purgatory.  
  
Walt appears to have gotten up quite early. In fact, he’s nowhere in the cabin. Saul pulls himself up off the floor, stiffly, and slips on his robe against the cold morning. He looks out the windows, but doesn’t see Walt in the immediate vicinity. Maybe he’s off trying to tap the maple trees, embrace his inner mountain man. They sky is cloudy, but the weather is holding.  
  
Saul puts the kettle on and opens up a fresh jar of peanut butter, then sits down with the newspapers. It’s amazing how interesting some of these articles seem when they’re the only reading material available. Well, besides that bird book. Glancing around the table, Saul notices that _Grant’s Guide to Birds of the White Mountains_ is nowhere to be seen. Walt must have taken it with him, probably for the trail maps, which means he’s out in the wild. A couple of weeks ago, Saul would have been beside himself with exasperation. No doubt Walt is off somewhere doing something ill-advised, something stupid that will get them caught. But today he just doesn’t feel like worrying about it. After all, what can he do? Go wandering into the woods and hope he stumbles across Walt before anyone else does? No, he’s not going to think about Walt today; better to use the unexpected solitude to take a much-needed mental vacation.  
  
\---  
  
The sun is beginning to dip low in the sky by the time the cabin door opens, bringing a flurry of cold air in behind Walt.  
  
Saul is relaxing on the bed, having a smoke and reading the NYT comics section. “Okay, I guess I’d be shirking my due diligence if I didn’t ask: Where were you today?”  
  
Walt hangs up his black hat on the hunting trophy and unwinds his scarf. “Out.”  
  
“Yeah, heh, that’s about what I figured.” He returns to the paper, where Dilbert and the Boss are having an equally productive conversation.  
  
“Tomorrow I want you to go back into town. We need a car.”  
  
Saul abruptly lowers the newspaper. “Look, I hate to break it to you, but the number of people in Sherman’s Bluff could be counted on a Yakuza’s fingertips. And until they build a commuter rail to the bait-and-tackle, those folks are going to hold tight to their Land Rovers. It’s not exactly a buyer’s market.”  
  
“The population is three-hundred and fifty-four, according to the _Guide_. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone willing to part with their vehicle for the amount of cash we’re prepared to offer.” Walt nods toward the barrel. “And you’ll also need to pick up more propane for the generator.”  
  
“What gives? Ed said our supply should last through winter.”  
  
Walt presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Not at the rate we’re using it. We need a fresh supply unless you want to risk the lights going out.”  
  
It’s no use arguing. In reality, a car will probably come in handy when-- not if-- this whole situation goes to pot and Saul needs to make a quick getaway. And besides, in the meantime, it’s probably a better idea to let Walt have his way, keep the shit un-stirred. That way, when the other shoe drops, Saul can be the one saying “I told you so” and not the other way around.  
  
\---  
  
Saul collapses onto the stone foundation of the “Welcome to Sherman’s Bluff” sign, exhaling a puff of breath visible in the cold air. An eight-mile walk does not magically become shorter the second time around. Whether or not it becomes longer is still an open question. Overheated by the exertion, he strips down to his polo shirt and feels refreshed by the breeze, closing his eyes and leaning back against the sign for a few minutes. As his heart rate returns to normal, Saul slides his coat back on and continues walking into town, looking for a spot where people might gather, people who might be willing to sell their car for a hefty sum of cash on impulse, to a stranger, with no questions asked. In other words, time to find the local watering hole.  
  
After walking down the highway for about a half mile, Saul spots a log building up a short slope off the road. It’s a simple rectangle with few windows, probably used to be a house, that now advertises itself as a sports bar. No sign indicates that it’s even open, but the dozen or so cars parked around back seem promising. Surely one of the patrons, drinking away their sorrows in the mid-afternoon, will be receptive to a generous cash offer. With a little finagling, Saul could probably walk out with a vehicle and his wallet none the lighter. But while he itches for a good con, his fingers twiddling Marco’s ring on his pinky, the pragmatically risk-averse side of his brain demands that he play it safe. He’s playing the long game, after all.  
  
Saul hikes up to the porch and opens the jingling door. The warm, tobacco-scented air envelops him as he steps inside. His shoulders instantly relax as he starts to thaw out, pulling off his gloves and unzipping his coat as he walks up to the bar and takes a seat. Tinny country music is barely audible over the sound system, and the television is broadcasting a hockey game that no one is paying attention to. The place is rustic, a bit divey, all bare wood and dim, smoky light. Regional differences aside, being back in a bar tugs at his sense of nostalgia, not just for the civilization he left over a month ago, but for much earlier times.  
  
The stocky bartender turns to Saul. “What’ll it be?”  
  
He peruses the row of taps and orders a local beer he’s never heard of, then turns to glance around. A few older couples are seated at the small wood tables, and two other men are at the bar, staring into their drinks. The guy nearest to Saul is wearing a simple flannel shirt with a watch that looks incongruously upmarket.  
  
Settling his face into an open, pleasant expression, Saul takes his package of Pall Malls out of his pocket and holds it out. “Want one?”  
  
“Thanks man,” the guy slurs. He takes the cigarette, stares at it for a moment as though not sure what to do next, then sets it down on the counter, stands up with careful deliberation, and bolts toward the door to puke all over the porch.  
  
Saul glances over at the other guy at the bar, who’s also a bit glassy-eyed but nowhere near that level of intoxication. Saul shrugs, _what can you do_.  
  
“Hey, I could use that smoke.”  
  
“Sure.” Saul also passes him the lighter. “I’m Gene. From Nebraska.”  
  
“Arnold,” he nods, before emptying his glass.  
  
Arnold looks to be about thirty, but a lived-a-hard-life kind of thirty, the alcohol-induced pinkness of his cheeks obscuring an ashen complexion. He has small, narrow eyes that stare through Saul, rather than at him, toward some distant point, like he’s preoccupied.  
  
Saul nods toward the empty glass. “Can I buy you another round?”  
  
Arnold sighs. “Jack Daniels.” He pulls his mouth into a polite smile, apparently with some difficulty. “You here to ski?”  
  
“Well, I was here with my wife. We were doing some business down in Plymouth, had some success, came up here to celebrate. But we had a little spat yesterday and she drove off with the car.” Saul gives a dry laugh and shakes his head. “Don’t think she’s coming back, frankly. But I’m glad to see the back of her.”  
  
Arnold mirrors the laugh, but asks, “What’s so funny?”  
  
“She left me with all the dough!”  
  
The other man raises his glass of whiskey. “Here’s to your old lady, then!”  
  
“I’ll drink to that, heh heh.”  
  
Arnold drains his glass. “So what are you going to do, then?”  
  
“Hit the road. Enjoy some freedom, a little quiet for once. See what the universe is planning next, y’know, like _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_.” Saul toys with his glass, twirling it over the bar top.  
  
“Never read it.”  
  
Saul laughs out loud. “Honestly, neither have I.” He loves this feeling, the easy flow that he experiences when he hits his stride and is fully inhabiting a role. He wasn’t totally kidding when he told Walt that he successfully convinced a woman he was Kevin Costner by believing it himself. To lie effectively, he just has to step into another persona, like changing his suit, and exist naturally as someone else. It’s a hard skill that, once learned, is as easy and freeing as riding a bike.  
  
It only takes a moment for Arnold to ask the question Saul is anticipating. “She took your car, so… How are you getting out of here?”  
  
“Well…” A slight drawl creeps into Saul’s voice, “That’s the tricky part, right? I was thinking of just buying a car, if someone’s got an old clunker sitting around. I got the cash, after all.”  
  
A strange looks passes over Arnold’s face as he exhales a half-laugh, half-gasped _Huh_. “That’s… What is it they say? The Lord works in mysterious ways sometimes, I swear.”  
  
“You’re saying you’ve got something for me?”  
  
“I just might, you know? I just might.” Arnold is beginning to slur his words a bit, and there’s a bitter note in the way he trails off. “Your wife, heh heh. Bet you she ran off with my dad.”  
  
“Your dad?”  
  
“Yeah, Ron Campbell, the--” air quotes-- “ _missing hiker_. Missing hiker my ass. Piece of shit’s probably halfway to… Look, he ain’t dead but he ain’t coming back either. He’s not gonna care what happens to his old truck, I’ll promise you that much, so if you aren’t a stickler for paperwork… How much cash you got?”  
  
Saul tries to maintain a neutral expression through this speech, but he feels like the Universe has suddenly yanked back the curtain and announced, _Yes, I really am just screwing with you now._  
  
He holds up a hand and tries to prevent his persona from cracking. “Wow, thanks for the offer, but I really don’t want to get involved in your family’s business. I mean, it sounds like the sort of kerfuffle best left--”  
  
“No man, don’t worry about it! I’m serious, that guy...” Arnold shakes his head. “I just want that truck off my hands. You can have his clothes, too, for all I care. And he left his dog behind, surprise surprise.” He gets up from the bar, a little wobbly on his legs. “Follow me. At least take a look at it.”  
  
Saul tosses some money on the bar and follows Arnold out the door and back into the cold. They walk around to the backside of the log building through the deep snow toward the parking lot. Arnold stops and doubles back toward the bar, looking down. “Hang on. Think I dropped a glove…”  
  
“Hey,” Saul puts on his Concerned Face, “you okay to drive?”  
  
“Uh… Don’t worry about it.” He points to a dark blue pickup truck. “That’s the one. Chevy. Early nineties… ‘92 I think?”  
  
Saul walks around the vehicle, making a show of inspecting it while he considers his options. On the one hand, it would be shame to let an opportunity like this go to waste. Arnold’s not going to ask any questions. It’s all very no muss, no fuss. Plus the truck bed has a canvas shell, so it will be easy to hide the barrel of money in there when it’s time for his getaway. If there’s a hair in the soup, it’s that Arnold could recognize the vehicle if Saul drives it back into town for his supply run a month from now, but he really doesn’t expect to still be up here that much longer.  
  
“How much do you want?”  
  
Arnold shrugs. “Five grand? It’s got less than a hundred thousand miles on it, if that makes a difference.”  
  
Saul runs a hand down his chin. “How about four? Could we do that?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, four’s alright. But you gotta give me a lift home.”  
  
\---  
      
A twinge of anxiety runs through Saul’s chest as he starts up Ron’s old truck, bringing to mind the first time he was behind the wheel of this particular vehicle. Pulling out of the parking lot, he switches on the radio and fiddles with the dial, something to fill the silence. He manages to pick up some French pop station from Montreal.  
  
Arnold makes conversation anyway. “What kind of business were you in with your wife?”  
  
“Salons, nail salons. We own lots of them in the Midwest, but we’re expanding into New England. Or were, anyway. Eh, spilled milk. Wipe it up and forget about it.”  
  
Arnold taps his hand on the armrest as they continue along the road, twisting and curving back up the mountain.  
  
“So where’s your place?” Saul asks.  
  
“About another mile. Hey, actually, keep going straight. I was hauling some gravel from the old quarry, and my car’s still up there. I’d better bring it back.”  
  
“Yeah sure.”  
  
If there’s one thing Saul can sniff out, it’s a liar. Arnold is probably selling him the truck without Ron’s wife’s knowledge. But it’s just as well that Saul isn’t returning to their house; after all, the dog might seem too friendly or there could be some other slip-up, so he continues driving.  
  
\---  
  
The quarry isn’t quite what Saul expected. There’s the remnants of an old mining town: a few decaying wood buildings overgrown with plants and returning to the soil, rusted and corroding machinery scattered about. The quarry pit itself must be a ways back through the trees, behind the evidence of an ambitious venture gone belly-up.  
  
“Drive up that little path a ways,” Arnold directs. “My car is at the gravel pit. Okay, park here.”  
  
Saul stops the truck and hops out, meeting Arnold in front of the hood.  
  
He reaches into his bulky coat pocket for the envelope of cash. “Okay, so as far as the pink slip goes--”  
  
Saul is cut off by a sudden, brutal punch to the face. He stumbles backward, putting his hands up uselessly to defend himself, but another hard punch below the eye knocks him to the ground.  
  
“Stop, stop!” He tries to scramble away, throwing the envelope into the snow. “There! Ten thousand! Take it!”  
  
Arnold kicks it away in a flurry of powder. “I don’t want your filthy money.” He’s not shouting. His voice is low, cold, dangerous. But it quivers, not with fear, possibly with grief.  
  
Saul holds his hands over his head, instinctively protecting his face. Breathe in, breathe out, he thinks. Don’t escalate this. “Tell me...tell me what it is you want.”  
  
Arnold jams his foot into Saul’s ribs, forcing the wind out of him. “I just want to know what’s going on! You at least owe me that, okay? You owe me!”  
  
Saul gasps for breath as pain shoots through his side. “What? I don’t underst--”  
  
Another hard kick. “Don’t lie to me! Your business with my dad! What was he doing?”  
  
He tries to curl inward and roll away, panic rising in his chest as he sees that the snow nearby is stained red with blood from the cut on his cheek. “I don’t even know your dad,” Saul manages.  
  
“Come on! That bullshit story, all that cash? Your shoes? I saw your prints in the snow. You’re the fucker who robbed our house!”  
  
If Saul wasn’t in so much pain, he’d be pounding his fists on the ground in frustration, in regret, in fury at the accumulation of decisions that brought him here. “What are you talking about? A robbery-- These shoes are mass-produced, okay? I’m a common size. Just… Let’s just...”  
  
Arnold grabs his jacket and hauls him to his feet. He drags Saul a few yards through the trees toward a rocky drop-off.  
  
“I’ll kill you! I swear I will kill you and leave your body in the rubble! What was my dad doing? Was it the...the Mafia, what?”  
  
Saul tries to hold himself on his feet as he struggles to get a deep breath. He seriously hopes none of his ribs are cracked. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t, okay? I don’t. Maybe it was drugs. It’s always drugs, right?”  
  
The edge of the cliff is coming into view. At this angle, it’s impossible to say how far of a drop it is to the bottom of the granite quarry.  
  
Arnold’s voice cracks. “Please.” He shoves Saul backwards toward the edge, but his heart isn’t quite in it. “I need to know what it was that stole my father from me all these years.”  
  
Good, Saul thinks, this is good. This guy isn’t a murderer, just confused and grief-stricken. He can work with that. He tries to get his breathing back to normal, ignore the pain of his injured face, and start talking. “Okay, listen: I just met your father a few weeks ago when I arrived here. He told me some guys were after him, real killers. He needed someone’s help skipping town, somebody nobody knew, someone who wouldn’t be recognized or connected to him. Now Ron exercised prudent discretion by not telling me his business, only paying me this sizeable lump of cash and asking that I break into his house and steal some hiking gear, make it look like he had wandered off into the woods. He was in over his head in something and felt that the only way out was to fake his own death. So while I can’t speak to the particulars, I can tell you that he was worried about you, about your mother; wanted to keep you as far from harm’s way as possible. So wherever he is now, rest assured that he always had your best interests at heart, even though I’m gathering he didn’t always know the best way to show it, exactly.”  
  
As Saul talks, Arnold’s lips part with a slight tremor, his fists unclenching. But when the story ends, he’s silent for a moment, and then his expression hardens.  
  
“Bullshit.” He lunges forward, up into Saul’s face and hisses, “You know what I think? I think you’re the miserable son of a bitch who-- ah--” A chunk of fractured stone, its cracks hidden under the snow, breaks off at the edge of the quarry pit. Arnold stumbles to regain his footing as Saul twists away from him toward safer ground.  
  
He instinctively reaches for Arnold’s coat, but Arnold dodges his grasp, trips backward, and tumbles over the ledge.  
  
\---  
  
Sometimes, Walt misses the convenience of his calculator watch. But, in point of fact, he can do most arithmetic in his head, such as the basic multiplication required to determine the amount of liquid propane needed to generate the desired explosion. In this case, the answer is _roughly double what we have on hand; better put Saul on that task_. If that isn’t possible, though, he’s willing to settle for a system to vent the LP into Welker’s headquarters as vapor, igniting it and incinerating anyone trapped inside. With electrical components salvaged from the television set, he can generate and control the spark he needs to ignite the propane at a timed delay. That part of his project was very straightforward; he was able to finish it yesterday. Today, though, he’s back at the quarry with a small amount of propane siphoned off the tank to work out the ratio of liquid to gas produced, and do some combustion tests. It’s not a project he wants anywhere near the cabin, that’s for sure.  
  
Walt knows that Saul won’t care for his bold plan, but it’s not too hard keeping the lawyer under his thumb when push comes to shove.  
  
A sharp cry pierces the clear afternoon air, causing Walt to look up from his hidden position among the shadows of the rocks. He sees a man fall, about a hundred feet away, tumbling down over the edge of the quarry. Another man stands at the top, around the height of a four-story building, peering down from the overhang. Walt squints and shakes his head in aggravation upon recognizing the figure. He strides toward the site of the fall, looking upwards.  
  
“Saul!” Walt is nowhere near as surprised as he might have been.  
  
The lawyer crouches down, very cautious of the dangerous ledge. “Walt! What are you-- Never mind, we’ve gotta get out of here.”  
  
Between the dead man and the blood on Saul’s face, Walt can’t even begin to fathom what kind of poor decisions led to this outcome. “Are there any marks on the body?”  
  
“No, I didn’t touch him. Nothing to suggest that this was anything other than an unfortunate accident. But drop whatever you’re doing, and let’s get the hell out of here, alright? Andele!”  
  
\---  
  
Saul gathers up the money Arnold kicked into the snow and joins Walt at the edge of the quarry to begin walking back home. The truck will have to stay where it is for now.  
  
After bringing him up to speed, Saul asks, “So what’s in the suitcase? Or do I even want to know?”  
  
“The end of Jack Welker. We’re leaving tomorrow. We’ll return here for the vehicle, load it up, get out of the area before abandoning it for something else to drive back to Albuquerque.”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Saul echoes. As much as he wants to keep stalling and wait out Walt, a second body on their hands will be trouble. If Arnold just disappears like Ron did, the whole situation will look like foul play; they have no choice but to leave the corpse where it is and let it be found. “But uh, what then? I mean, after you’ve introduced the skinheads to your little friend and the credits roll, what’s phase two?”  
  
Walt’s breathing is labored as he trudges through the snow. It’s best that they stay off the road for the walk back. “I find my money and, with your assistance, arrange a way to transfer it to my family.”  
  
“Not to be a doubting Thomas here, but what makes you think your family is going to accept that money, should you find a way to get it to them?”  
  
A frown passes over Walt’s face, as though he’s perplexed by the question. “They need it. They need me to provide for them, for my children’s future.”  
  
“Have you ever considered-- and maybe I’m just going out on a limb here-- that this isn’t the best way to ensure greener pastures for the wife and begats? You want my advice: the Feds are going to be scrutinizing Skyler like an ant under a magnifying glass. A windfall coming her way, no matter how well you disguise it, is going to get her burned. I recommended before that you turn yourself in; that goes double now. Keep the heat off your family, give them a sense of...peace and closure. That is, of course, assuming that their best interests are at the top of the list here and not, say, ego.”  
  
Walt looks straight ahead, into this distance, and Saul isn’t sure if he was listening or not. For a minute, there’s no sound but the soft crunch of their feet in the snow and the occasional bird fluttering through the desolate woods. But then Walt raises his eyebrows. “Ego?” His voice is calm, maybe even reflective. “Two years ago-- well, before that. For my whole life, really-- I was...frustrated, at every turn. Chemistry is what I was good at, what I really loved. I don’t know if you have any genuine passions, outside of lining your pockets. But chemistry, it’s all around us; the cycles of growth and decay and regeneration… Well,” he waves his hand and smiles as though abashed, “Anyway. I contributed to Nobel Prize-winning research, I co-founded a company that today is worth over 2 billion dollars. But ultimately I wound up teaching high school and working a second job at a car wash, and I put up with it. And the whole time I was living in a, I don’t know, a fog.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s ironic: it wasn’t until my diagnosis that I finally woke up. To not feel alive until you have only a few months remaining… What I built, that was the only thing in my life that I truly owned, that wasn’t immediately snatched out of my grasp. I had the opportunity to create something, something that I could take real pride in, and truly _live_ for once in my life. You can call that ‘ego’ if you wish, you can call it selfishness, but without _that_ , whatever it is, what are we?”  
  
Saul smirks, his hands in his pockets. “Just chemistry, right?”  
  
Walt smiles back. “Just chemistry.”


	8. Hawks Wheeling in a White Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Rough Saulter ahoy.

It’s evening when Walt and Saul reach the gate, their shadows stretched long in front of them on the snowy road. Walt hadn’t spoken a word for the bulk of the walk, but his strained breathing was an obvious tip-off that the activity of the last few days has left him worse for wear. While a deep pink has spread across Saul’s nose from the cold, Walt’s face remains yellowish and sallow under his hat.   
  
Saul kicks his boots against the porch, trying to knock off the mud and slush. “Hey, I’m gonna heat up a can of soup.”  
  
Walt presses his mouth into the thin line of a grimace attempting to be a smile. “That’s… I’m not very hungry. I had a late lunch.”  
  
Once inside, Saul feeds a few sticks into the stove, brushes the wood dust off his hands, and pours a small glass of scotch. They’re getting dangerously close to the bottom of the second bottle. The cabin had been left cold all day, and the clouds overhead warn of another big storm coming. He then searches under the sink for the first aid kit and takes it into the bathroom.  
  
Saul scrutinizes his face in the mirror, tallying up the damage. It’s not as bad as it could have been; at least none of Arnold’s punches landed on his still-healing nose. Still, there’s redness and swelling around his left eye, and the gash on his right cheek would probably benefit from stitches. He gives it a gentle poke, but pulls back with a sharp wince. An antiseptic pad and a band-aid will have to do for now, anyway. But that’s appropriate, seeing as everything he’s done lately has only functioned as a band-aid solution. His life is increasingly held together with spit and chewing gum.  
  
When he returns to the main room, Walt is sitting in the simple wood chair beneath the deer head, rolling up the sleeve of his plaid shirt. A neon bright chemotherapy bag dangles over his head.  
  
Saul gives Walt a quizzical look. “I thought we were leaving tomorrow. You going to be feeling okay after that?”  
  
“I have to stay on schedule,” he replies, preparing the needle.  
  
Saul shrugs. “Well, I guess your road to perdition can always take a detour to the Mayo Clinic. I’m serious, you know. Not about the hospital, obviously, but there’s no reason why we can’t find some other backwoods hideout where you can rest and build up your strength--”  
  
 _“Son of a....”_ After missing the vein again on the third jab, Walt slams the needle down on the side table. “Shut up, Saul. Just shut up!”   
  
Saul holds up his hands. “Okay. _Bad idea_ is all I’m saying. Now here, give with the needle! Let me take a shot at it. So to speak.”  
  
“Absolutely not. Just let me concentrate.” Once Saul stops talking, Walt successfully gets his chemo drip started. His veins are starting to collapse, leading to bruising along his inner arm. He leans back in his chair, resting his head against the wooden wall and closes his eyes.   
  
While he waits for Walt’s treatment to finish, Saul makes dinner: tomato soup and canned pineapple.   
  
“Hey buddy,” he calls as the soup starts to bubble, “sure you don’t want any?”  
  
“No, I’m fine.”  
  
Saul’s no medical expert, but in his opinion, Walt looks anything but. He’s slumped down in his chair, forehead wrinkled with careworn lines, like he’s deeply weary as the infusion bag slowly empties. Saul carries his dinner over to the table, slides over the stack of newspapers, and starts to eat. As he studies Walt’s condition, the same old question keeps running through his head: _Is this a good thing for me, or not?_ As far as he can tell, he’s got three options at this point: A) Go along with Walt’s crazy plan and probably get caught; B) Find a way to keep Walt in the cabin until he dies, then get rid of the body, take the money, and split; C) Like B, but kill Walt himself. He’s still got that handgun in the safe behind the picture, unbeknownst to Walt. While C is making more sense with each passing day, he has to admit that A holds a certain appeal, a boyish adventure movie charm. Let Walt torch some Nazis, then search for the hidden treasure beyond his wildest dreams. But at that point, he would still have to deal with the eternal liability that is Walter H. White.   
  
Walt opens his eyes and stares back at Saul. “What?”  
  
“I was just realizing that your name sounds like Jesus H. Christ. I’m gonna keep it in reserve for the next time I slam my fingers in a drawer.”  
  
Walt actually chuckles at this. “You really do just sit around all day thinking of ways to add color to your speech, don’t you?”  
  
“Yeah, and you’re Deep Thought over there, working on the Ultimate Question.”  
  
“Actually,” He sits up a little straighter, “I was just thinking that you should get dressed.”  
  
Saul glances down at his velour jacket and chinos. “What do you mean? I am dressed-- Oh no, no I’m not going back out there tonight,” he jerks his thumb toward the door. “That’s off the table.”  
  
“No, I just mean that you should get, you know, dressed. Properly. Put on a suit.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Because I’m formally calling upon the services of my attorney.” There’s more than a hint of irony in Walt’s tone. And he looks far too self-satisfied.   
  
Saul runs his teeth over his lower lip as a moment of ambiguity passes between them. Then, with a shrug, he abandons his half-empty dishes on the table and rummages through the clothes cupboard. He takes out his charcoal suit, deep red shirt, and shiny patterned tie. He had certainly never expected to wear his scales of justice cufflinks again when he was planning to disappear, but he had saved them as a memento, and he’s glad he did. His collar pin, too. He carries the whole bundle into the bathroom, where he changes and combs his hair into place. He feels a lot better suddenly, better than he has in weeks, seeing himself back in his familiar persona. After all, this was the whole reason why he came here to begin with: the fear of having to exchange Saul Goodman for Gene Whatever-the-fuck. He’s going to rebuild. He’s going to find a way to rebuild what he had. And he’s going to look damn sharp doing it. In the meantime...  
  
When Saul exits the bathroom, Walt glances at him, then reaches over to the side table and places his black hat on his head. They’re no longer two washed-up schmucks on the lam; they’re Heisenberg and his consigliere.  
  
“Come over here.”  
  
Saul crosses the room with an extra swagger in his step, keeping his eyes off the chemo drip. “Now. What can I do for you today?”  
  
“You can start,” Walt mulls over his words for a second, “by getting on your knees.”  
  
Saul figured that’s where this was going. Physically, he’s not particularly attracted to Walt. But this thing they have, whatever this is they’re doing...yeah. He’s more than happy to comply.  
  
He carefully lowers himself to the floor, between Walt’s spread legs.  
  
Walt smiles down at him. “Well? You’d best get to it.”  
  
Saul starts working open Walt’s brown leather belt, but then pauses. “Hey, isn’t this…? Aw Jesus, you kept this?” His memory is assaulted by flashes of Ron’s death throes.  
  
Walt says nothing in reply, but slides his belt out, then suddenly loops it around Saul’s neck, slipping the loose end through the buckle and pulling, not tight enough to restrict his breathing, just tight enough to threaten, enough that he can feel it.  
  
Saul’s heart rate quickens as his face is tugged closer to Walt’s crotch, the buckle of the murder weapon cold on his throat just below his chin. He licks his chapped lips as his shaking hands undo the fly of Walt’s khakis. This is so fucked up, but the expression on Walt’s face says it all. He’s looking down at him with narrowed eyes, mouth in a half-smile, possessive and in control. Saul stifles the moan that’s building at the back of his throat and takes Walt’s stiffening cock out of his white briefs. He gives him a few firm tugs, getting Walt fully hard before taking him into his mouth.  
  
\---  
  
Walt watches Saul’s mouth at work. This is different, to say the least. He hasn’t been with another man since before Skyler. But the way Saul looks in his flashy suit, his face a little beat up and his eyes wide with arousal, the way he looks put together and disheveled at the same time, it all makes Walt want to shove himself deep into his throat.  
  
“What you just did with your tongue, keep doing that.” There’s a surprising softness to Saul’s mouth, a gentle quality that Walt hadn’t anticipated.   
  
Saul isn’t just his lawyer, he’s _his_ lawyer. _His._ And the way he’s looking up at Walt, the way his brows are knit together in raw need… Walt searches for a word other than _intoxicating_ , but that’s exactly what it is.  
  
Walt has to keep his right arm still, as the last few minutes’ worth of chemotherapy drip into his vein, but with his free hand he releases his grip on the belt and grabs the back of Saul’s godawful hair. He pushes his face down into his lap, all the way, until he feels Saul’s throat constrict as he chokes on Walt’s cock. Walt waits a few seconds, then pulls his head backward, off of him, as Saul gasps. He looks down at Saul’s slackened, reddened lips, the way his gagging has caused tears to spring to his eyes. This is good. He shoves his shin between Saul’s thighs and feels how much his lawyer is enjoying himself. Saul responds by grinding shamelessly back against his leg. Walt grips him by the hair again, steadying his head, and slaps him across the face, feeling the sharp sting radiate through his palm. Saul exhales sharply and blinks a few times in rapid succession, his cock throbbing against Walt’s knee.  
  
Walt leans down close to his ear and whispers, his voice rough and deep, “Do you want more?”  
  
Saul nods, eager, practically quivering with arousal. “Yeah.”  
  
“More what?”  
  
“More, please.”  
  
He misinterpreted the question, but that response is good enough for Walt. “Then get up.”  
  
While Saul stiffly rises to his feet, Walt fumbles to disconnect the spent I.V. bag. He discards the needle and line on the side table, then stands up and grabs Saul by the arm, pulling him roughly toward the kitchen counter. He moves the dish drying rack out of the way, then turns Saul around and bends him over.  
  
Walt leans across Saul, pushing down on his shoulders, breathing heavily. His lungs are burning and he doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough oxygen, so he takes a moment to rest his weight on his lawyer’s back while he catches his breath. Wrapping his arms around Saul, he works open his belt and fly and lets his trousers fall to the floor, then he yanks down his purple boxers, freeing his erection.  
  
“I’m a little out of practice,” Saul warns. “Give me some prep first.”  
  
Walt moves his hand to Saul’s mouth. “Open.”  
  
It’s obscene the way Saul sucks eagerly on Walt’s fingers, the sensation traveling straight to his cock. There’s a quality of vulnerability about the other man that Walt had always noticed, but never found quite as appealing as he does now. He wants to see Saul completely coming apart beneath him; _from_ him; _for_ him. Withdrawing his hand, he moves it down to Saul’s ass. Walt shoves his lawyer’s injured face down against the hard counter while sliding a slick finger inside him, drawing a moan. But Walt doesn’t have the patience to take it slow. He works a second finger into Saul as soon as he can, sliding quickly in and out as he feels Saul try to relax his muscles around him.  
  
“Come on, come on,” Walt coaxes. “Are you ready?”  
  
“Uh...go for it.”  
  
Reasonably slick with precum, Walt lines himself up and starts to push his way into Saul, perhaps a little faster than he ought to. Saul winces and gasps, but Walt keeps a firm grip on his hips.  
  
“Am I hurting you?”  
  
“It’s fine. Keep going.”  
  
Walt digs his nails into Saul’s sensitive inner thigh. “That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“Yeah,” Saul’s voice is all needy rasp, “it hurts.”  
  
Walt exhales in satisfaction. He can’t remember the last time he was inside something as tight as Saul.  He looks at the lawyer’s hands, tense and grasping at the flat surface, the incongruity of the gold cufflinks and tacky pinky ring shining against the grimy brown countertop.  
  
A few months ago, he never would have imagined wanting to fuck Saul. But now he’s surprised by how good it is, by Saul’s willingness to let him take control. He isn’t made to feel ashamed of what he wants. He doesn’t even feel that he has to ask permission. Whatever he wants to give, he knows Saul will-- _“Take it,”_ Walt commands, over and over, pounding into him. Saul’s foot slides on the rug, and Walt wraps an arm around his waist, steadying him, holding him down against the kitchen counter.   
  
Saul gasps underneath him as Walt’s pace speeds up. “Hey, how about a reach-around?”  
  
Walt grabs his lawyer’s cock and tugs at it, rough and uneven. He’s getting close and figures Saul probably is, too. His other hand grips Saul’s thigh, hard enough that his fingers will leave bruises. Then he lets his hand travel upwards, over the front of Saul’s suit to his throat, where he can feel the bright tie and collar pin, the leather belt, and Saul’s soft neck all under his hand at once. Walt tightens his grip as he thrusts a few more times, desperately, before coming with a long shudder. Saul isn’t far behind; Walt feels him come too, hot and wet on his hand, as he pulls out.  
  
Walt needs a moment to catch his breath, panting for air, still maintaining his hold on Saul’s neck. He brings his sticky hand up to his lawyer’s mouth.  
  
“Here. Clean that off.”   
  
As Saul hesitantly licks himself off Walt’s fingers, it takes everything in Walt’s power to hold back the violent coughing fit that’s been welling up in his lungs for the past few minutes. But he wants to finish this right. He slides his hand deep into Saul’s mouth, just up to the point where he might gag, then pulls it out and releases his hold on Saul’s throat, letting him slump back over the counter.  
  
\---  
  
Saul chuckles and shakes his head. “That was...really something. Frankly, I didn’t know you had it in you.” He zips up his pants and gives Walt back his belt. “Oh, and here, you sick bastard. Seriously, bury that, or burn it, or something. Jesus!”  
  
Walt just nods, still panting. And then his coughing starts again, violently, like he’s choking on all the air he gasped in over the last ten minutes.  
  
After pouring himself the last of the scotch, Saul sits down again at the table, wincing a little. His post-orgasm slump always hits him hard, and he shifts uncomfortably, becoming aware of how sore he is. Still, that was very good. It’s been ages since he got fucked like that. Walter White; who would have known?  
  
Walt’s hacking and choking have finally abated. He swallows down a glass of water, then runs a hand over his face, standing in the kitchen for an extra moment and staring out the window into the darkness of the woods. Then he crosses the room and wheels the empty suitcase out from the corner.   
  
He turns to Saul and raises his eyebrows. “You’d better start packing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my readers for all your lovely comments so far! Knowing that someone else enjoys this sort of nonsense too really makes my day.


	9. A Tern for the Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters! Real life and all that. Hope to be back on a more regular schedule now. I've missed writing these two assholes!

Saul stands still in the middle of the cabin for a moment, regarding his set of blue suitcases with concern. One is empty, the other contains Walt’s device, something to do with venting propane and creating electrical sparks. It sounds dangerous as hell, and Saul hopes it won’t be a problem storing it in the trunk for the drive all the way back to New Mexico. Just so long as they don’t have a fender-bender.  
  
When Walt crosses the room and opens the front door, he lets in a swirling flurry of snowflakes and a rush of icy wind. It looks like another storm might be picking up.  
  
“What’re you going out there for? You forgot Rosebud?”  
  
Walt pauses in the doorway and flips his furry hood over his head. “I’m disconnecting the propane tank.”  
  
“Lights out, huh? I take it that can’t wait ‘til morning?”  
  
“We’ve used too much of the LP as it is.” Walt closes the door behind him. Discussion over.  
  
It’s only a few seconds before the electricity cuts out, plunging the cabin into darkness. Saul trips over the suitcases as he fumbles to find the kerosene lantern, bruising his shin. He finally locates it on the side table and switches it on, illuminating the room in a dim light broken by long, thin shadows. The lantern reminds him of his time taking care of Chuck years ago; in some ways, dealing with Walt is similar to how he had to handle his brother: with kid gloves and endless accommodation. He starts pulling his clothes out of the cupboard and piling them on the bed to sort through. He can’t bring everything, so it’s triage time.  
  
Walt returns momentarily, brushing the snow off his shoulders. He walks over to the stove and stands in front of its red glow for a minute before shedding his coat and starting on his shirt buttons. “There’s still some hot water in the tank. I’m going to take a shower.”  
  
Saul holds out a hand. “Woah, Walt, haha, I don’t think I’d be overstepping the limits of courtesy to remind you that I walked ten miles today, total, plus I was a victim of assault and battery and nearly got thrown over a cliff. Not to mention the other strenuous activities of the evening. All of which is to say: yeah, I think I’ve earned the priority shower tonight.”  
  
Walt responds with a light scoff. “I don’t think so, Saul. I’m much faster that you are, so there might be some hot water left afterward.” He gathers up a flashlight and fresh t-shirt.  
  
“Look, just because I like it rough doesn’t mean I’m suddenly your bitch!”  
  
Walt ignores him and shuts the bathroom door.  
  
Running a hand down his face, Saul tries to calm back down. Maybe this isn’t actually another case of Walt playing petty dictator. The thing he has to remember about Walt is that, if something seems rational to him, there’s no arguing with it. It’s not maliciousness so much as the other man having his head stuck up his ass. Still, a commitment to doing whatever seems logical is a useful trait for Walt to have; it means that, as long as Saul can present an idea as being the most rational option, he has a good shot at getting Walt to go along with it. He’s come to learn that a logical person can be easier to manipulate than an emotional one, in the long run. More predictable.  
  
Saul picks a piece of wood up off the pile and opens the little door of the stove to toss it in. And then… Instinct takes over and in a flash he’s leaping out of the way and onto the bed to avoid the flames that sweep like spilled milk across the floor.  
  
“Fuck! Walt…! Fuck!”  
  
The fire extinguisher is under the sink, but that’s out of the question. The flames are already licking up the side of the wood cabinets, up the blankets stacked next to the bed, grasping toward the newspapers spread around the table. In a flash of panic, Saul’s gaze searches for the barrel of money, but to his relief the lid is tight on the sturdy container. It should be fireproof. The heat becomes so intense so quickly that beads of sweat run down Saul’s forehead as he leaps across the room toward the door, narrowly avoiding the spreading fire, one hand over his nose and mouth, the other flinging the door open and letting the smoke pour out into the clear night air.  
  
Walt is only a few seconds behind him, somehow managing-- whether through adrenaline or sheer force of will-- to haul the blue plastic tub of chemotherapy packets out with him.  
  
The two men run through the snow for several yards until they’re a safe distance from the inferno. Walt watches, open-mouthed, as the heat blows the glass out of the windows, the roof becoming obscured by black smoke as the flames engulf it.  
  
“Back up farther,” he warns, and Saul wisely listens. Only a few seconds pass before the explosion hits. It’s not a rumble, like thunder, but more of a crack, like a gunshot but louder. That was the propane tank. Saul feels the intense flash of heat on his face, and wonders if his eyebrows have been singed like that time at the hibachi restaurant. It’s obvious that the cabin is done for, and there will be little left to salvage. Saul can’t say that he enjoyed the time spent here, but he feels a twinge of regret at the sudden loss of it all: the big rug, the watchful gaze of that creepy deer head, the bird book, the endless canned fruit. It’s been one of the strangest experiences of his life, and now it’s all up in flames.  
  
As the initial shock of the fire starts to wear off and the practical concerns take over, Saul lifts his arms and drops them back to his sides in exasperation. This is just peachy.  
  
Walt hadn’t quite gotten into the shower when he heard Saul shouting, so he’s dry, but standing in the snow wearing nothing but his t-shirt and tight white briefs. Neither of them had grabbed a coat on the way out, but Saul at least is still in his suit. The intense conflagration that’s rapidly consuming the cabin will keep them warm for the moment, maybe a few hours.  
  
Saul realizes that he’s subconsciously shrinking away from Walt, anticipating the other man’s wrath at the accident that he will no doubt be blamed for. He’d better nip that bud before it blows open. “Loathe as I am to put too fine a point on it: leaving an incendiary device in the middle of the floor and then cutting the lights? Not your brightest moment. But hey! Hindsight is 20/20, so rather than playing the blame game, let’s write it off as a valuable learning experience and move on to more pressing matters, yeah?”  
  
“This,” Walt waves his hand at the fire, “I’m not worried about this. The money’s safe in the barrel, so this is a very minor setback. I can find some other way to kill Jack Welker, so don’t worry about that. But what we need now is the truck.”  
  
Saul rubs his hand over his chin, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he thinks. It would be bad if the fire authorities show up, and once the embers burn out they’ll freeze. There’s moonlight, but only a little. Not enough to go traipsing through the woods. If he follows the road, he can make it up to the quarry. Maybe. If exhaustion doesn’t claim him first. It’s been a hell of a day, and he feels like collapse is imminent.  
  
“Fine, fine.” Saul hold up his hands. “I’ll be Sir Edmund Hillary, I’ll scale the snowy peaks. But you’re gonna owe me after this one. _Bring the car around_ has never been such a tall order.”  
  
He starts walking toward the gate, the warmth of the conflagration quickly fading, replaced by the frigid breeze of the night. The chill cuts right through his suit and snow gathers around the tops of his wingtips. This isn’t going to work. Then he remembers…  
  
“Walt! Hey Walt, you got something to dig with?”  
  
A look of confusion passes over Walt’s face, but then he nods and looks around, finding the axe far enough away from the fire that it wasn’t damaged. He hands it to Saul.  
  
It’s hard work, exhuming Ron’s grave, but the intense heat thawed the ground out nicely. They had buried the man's remains only three feet deep or so, along with the gear that Saul had taken from his house to create the appearance of a hiking accident.  
  
It isn’t long before the axe hits something that isn’t dirt. Saul scoops out several more handfuls of softened soil from the widening hole, then reaches down and pulls out the heavy coat, followed by a knit cap. He shakes them out and puts them on. They’re filthy, of course, but no worse than he is. He pushes the pile of overturned dirt back over the charred bones.  
  
Walt nods at him, perhaps as a gesture of encouragement, and Saul begins his walk into the night.  
  
\---  
  
The moonlight glistens on the snow covering  the small road leading down to the highway. The woods on either side, though, are pitch black, and the way the wind whips through the dead branches sets Saul’s nerves on edge. He’s never been a particularly outdoorsy guy, but he knows the bears can smell him a mile off. On the other hand, Walt’s sick and half naked, so maybe they’ll hold out for him instead. The rational side of his brain, though, tells him that the real danger is breaking an ankle and being trapped out in the freezing forest. At least he knows how to take a fall.  
  
Saul stuffs his cold hands in his pockets, hums some Rolling Stones favorites, and quickens his pace.  
  
It isn’t long before he reaches the main road and turns left, walking uphill toward the quarry. His feet are killing him, although he’s more comfortable in his broken-in dress shoes than he was in the stiff new hiking boots. Squinting, he checks his watch and sees that it’s just past ten, early enough in the night that cars will still be out. His heavy coat hides his suit, making him less conspicuous, and walking through the dark woods would be even more risky, so he stays on the highway.  
  
It’s two miles up to the quarry. Not a long walk, per se, but strenuous and cold, and Saul is exhausted enough to make it feel three times as long. But eventually a low, decaying stone wall lets him know he’s arrived, and he turns down the gravel road that runs through the remains of the old company town. The overgrown ruins of rotting wood cabins and twisted iron machinery sticking up out of the snow make for an ominous setting. With a little more moonlight, Saul imagines some brave photographer could have a field day out here.  
  
Hearing rustling in the dead leaves, he looks just in time to see the bushy tail of a sizeable raccoon darting into the underbrush. It’s a good night for scavenging.  
  
He continues walking, his shoes crunching through the slushy gravel, toward the huge excavation pit. He can’t remember how far in they had driven before leaving the truck, but he figures he must be close.  
  
But as he reaches the drop off into the quarry, Arnold’s truck is still nowhere to be seen.  
  
Saul stands at the end of the gravel road, shivering with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of Ron’s coat, bouncing on his heels to keep his blood circulating, trying to figure out where to go from here. He’s nothing if not an optimist, but this is a clusterfuck to be sure. If worse comes to worst, he could maybe (big maybe!) walk into town, call a cab up from the nearest city. It’s not like they don’t have the money.  
  
Suddenly, his thoughts are interrupted by the blinding headlights of a car speeding up the narrow road. There’s no time to duck into the bushes; he’s already been spotted. The vehicle comes to a halt a few yards away, and a man gets out.  
  
“Gene! Get in the car.”  
  
“Wha…?” Saul squints into the lights and sees a vaguely familiar face. His mind races to place it. It’s the shopkeeper, the guy who gave him that bird book!  
  
“Or you can keep standing out here like a lost fawn, it’s your call.”  
  
With a mix of gratitude and reluctance, Saul slides into the passenger seat of the station wagon. The car is warm and comfortable, and he’s in real danger of falling dead asleep. But then the shop clerk climbs into the driver’s seat, closes the door, and fixes him with a sharp stare.  
  
“So _Saul_ , what brings you out this way tonight?”  
  
“Uh...Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to guess.”  
  
The clerk sighs. “They always do return to the scene of the crime.” He turns the car on, and gets it turned around, rolling back down the gravel path to the highway.  
  
“How do you know my name?” Saul can take a pretty good guess, but it's better to play his cards close to his chest.  
  
The clerk doesn't have a problem giving him an answer. “I'd been working for a mutual acquaintance, helping him keep an eye on you two. My name’s Phil, by the way. Phil Coleman.”  
  
Saul laughs. “For real?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You work at a camping store and your name is Phil Coleman? Like is that a suggestion to the customer?”  
  
Phil looks at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before chuckling dryly. “Never noticed that before. You're sharp.”  
  
“Seriously?” Saul can't believe this guy.  
  
“Frankly I'm a numbers man. Never did get along well with words. Numbers, though… Ask me a question and I'll figure it in my head.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Anything.”  
  
“Uh…” Saul has had far too long a day for this kind of shit. “123 times 456.”  
  
Phil doesn't miss a beat. “Fifty-six thousand and eighty-eight.”  
  
“That sounds good, but it's not like I have a calculator to check.”  
  
Phil shrugs, slowing down for the turn onto the small road up to the cabin. “Believe me or don’t. But there’s a lot more where that came from.”  
  
\---  
  
Walt sits on a tree stump, the raw wood digging into his bare thighs, as he watches the fire burning steadily. The wood smoke is mixed with the noxious fumes of the propane and assorted plastics and household items. Moistening his t-shirt in snow melt, he brings it up over his nose and mouth to serve as an air filter while he waits for Saul to return with the truck. He can’t say that he’s personally fond of the lawyer, but he has to admit: it’s been invaluable having a partner along. A truly self-sufficient person is never too proud to recognize when a second pair of hands or eyes is useful.  
  
And speaking of eyes, Walt is careful to keep his open. Do helicopters patrol the mountain for forest fires? He can only hope the smoke will go unnoticed for at least an hour or two, depending on how fast Saul is walking. They’ll have to wait for the fire to burn out anyway, though, in order to retrieve the money barrel. This could potentially be a very tricky situation.  
  
Walt shivers, leaning forward toward the flames and rubbing his hands together. It will take a few days to drive back to New Mexico, and in that time he’ll devise a new plan for dealing with Welker. This week will, perhaps, be the most important week of his life. If he wants to preserve his family’s legacy, there’s no more room for error. Heaven knows there’s been plenty of that already.  
  
Over the crackle and sputter of burning wood, he hears a car approaching, driving up through the open gate. Walt stands, but stops still when he sees by the light of the flames, not Arnold’s pickup truck, but an unfamiliar station wagon. He squints against the headlights but doesn’t retreat, preparing to face whatever fresh twist this might be.  
  
The car stops and Saul climbs out from the passenger’s side. “Walt! Hey, get in the car. It’s fine, this is Phil, he’s Ed’s guy.”  
  
“Where’s the truck?”  
  
“It was gone-- Look, everything’s under control for right now, we can sort this thing out in the morning. So you can come with us or freeze your butt off out here, it’s your call.”  
  
The falling snowflakes are coming down heavier, sticking together in bigger clumps, and the wind is starting to pick up, whipping at Walt’s arms and legs. “Come with you where?”  
  
“Phil’s gonna put us up at his place for the night.”  
  
Walt sweeps his hand around at the burning wreckage. “And I suppose we just...leave all this as it is?”  
  
Saul starts to reply, but Phil leans his head out the window and shouts, “You coming or not? I don’t like leaving her idling like this.”  
  
Walt stares at the car for a silent minute. He hates to leave the money unguarded, especially once the fire burns out, but he can’t stay here and he’s not sure he trusts Saul alone with it at this point either, so with some reluctance, he climbs into the backseat of the station wagon. It’s nice to finally be somewhere warm, at least.  
  
“There’s a blanket back there so you can cover up a little,” Phil offers, “so long as you’re not allergic to dog.”  
  
“That’s...thank-you.” It’s been a long day and Walt is more than ready to close his eyes, but he keeps watch out the window as they drive toward the highway, careful to remember the route back from wherever they’re going.  
  
He cranes his neck to look out the rear windshield toward their cabin up the hill. With the wind and snow, Walt can’t even see the smoke. And by the time the sun rises, all that will be left are smouldering embers. They have a very good shot at escaping detection.  
  
In the front seat, Saul’s already asleep with his mouth open. They drive on for a few miles, branching off to a side road before reaching town, and continuing for fifteen minutes or so until a large, half-frozen lake comes into view.  
  
Phil stops the car. “The lake’s not much to look at at night, but it’s home sweet home. Good fishing, too.” He nudges Saul to wake him up, and all three climb out of the car into the cold night.  
  
Phil gestures up the hill, but it’s too dark to see anything. “My place is up there, through the trees. I’ll unlock the boathouse for you two. It has some furnishings, running water, should be some food. Space heater. You’ll be fine for the night.” He motions for them to follow him toward the shore, where a small wooden structure extends over the water, built like a garage with an apartment above it.  
  
Walt and Saul follow Phil up the external stairs to the second floor of the boathouse. There’s a bit of rot in the wood, and Walt wouldn’t be surprised if his foot went through one of the steps. At the top, Phil flips on the light and ushers them through the door.  
  
The boathouse doesn’t look exactly cozy; it may be even draftier than the cabin was, and when Walt swipes his hand over the end table he’s greeted by a layer of dust that nearly makes him sneeze. Still, there’s a double bed with a heavy comforter, and there’s a coffee maker on the kitchenette, both of which feel like luxuries after the past weeks.  
  
“Get washed up, get some sleep, we’ll sort all this out in the morning.” Phil turns to head back down the stairs.  
  
Walt nods at him. “Thank-you.”  
  
“Don’t mention it! No trouble at all.” He shuts the door.  
  
Saul’s coat and jacket hit the floor, then the lawyer slips off his shoes and collapses on top of the bed, sprawling across it diagonally, and is evidently asleep in seconds. Walt shoves him over and climbs under the warm blankets before switching off the lamp. He sets his glasses on the end table and rubs his eyes with a yawn. It doesn’t take Walt long to fall asleep too, and he dreams restlessly well into the morning.


	10. Fine Kettle of Trout

Saul, fresh from a very welcome shower, is just doing up the final button on his red shirt when he hears a pleasant knock at the boathouse door.  
  
“Good morning,” Phil greets him. “Not sure if you’d be up yet, but it looked like Walter could do with a set of clothes. I guess I’m a bit heftier than he is, but these’ll have to do.”  
  
Saul accepts the proffered khakis and plaid shirt. “Hey thanks.”  
  
“You can come down to the shore when you’re ready. Caught some trout yesterday, grilling them up for breakfast. And there’s coffee or orange juice.”  
  
“Uh,” Saul lowers his voice, “listen, Walt’s not going to be in a particularly amiable mood when he wakes up. I appreciate all the help, but we’re going to need to vamoose ASAP.”  
  
Phil holds out an assuaging hand. “Oh sure, sure. You got it. I understand you fellas will be in a hurry, but we’ll head out after breakfast. After all, you gotta eat! And there’s one or two things I want to run past you.” Off Saul’s skeptical expression, he adds, “Nothing major. I’m just looking for a little professional advice.”  
  
\---  
  
If Saul’s honest, the smoky smell of the grilling fish is downright seductive. Dressed back in his suit and the dead man’s winter coat, he joins Phil down by the shore of the lake, taking a seat in a green adirondack chair. The water laps lightly at the rocky beach, the ice rising and falling in gentle waves on the surface as a morning breeze picks up. It’s certainly chilly out, but not the bitter cold of the last week.  
  
Saul accepts a plate of trout, then Phil sits down too.  
  
“Now I don’t want to pry into your business,” the shopkeeper begins, “I know the rough outline, and that’s all I want to know. But I’ll tell you a bit about mine. I got into some hot water, oh about ten years ago now, and Ed got me relocated. Time passed, I started helping him out with some things, became his eyes and ears when he brought you and your partner up here. He said you two would need someone keeping tabs, for his own safety as much as yours. Seems he was right. Anyway, you’ve been having your share of problems, but your problems are my problems, too. Now I never told Ed this, but I met Ron Campbell some years ago and me and him got a little bit of a side business going together, see?”  
  
Saul stirs a few teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. He knows he’s going to regret asking, “What business?”  
  
“Gambling. Sports betting. I told you I was a numbers guy, well I ran the numbers end of it, Ron ran the…” Phil waves his hand, “technical end, the practical end. He set us up on the world wide web and all that crap. We were pulling in ten, sometimes twenty thousand dollars a month for a while, wagers from people in China and Russia and over there.” He pauses to chew meditatively on a bite of trout. “But over the past few months, we were going through, well, a bit of a dry spell. Wound up with some debt, you know how it goes. Some bad business, but Ron said he could pull us out of it. And then, you guys came along and… I’m sure you see how this all leaves me in a tight spot.”  
  
Saul replies with a dry chuckle. “Ouch. Yeah, it does sound like you’re in a bit of a pickle. My condolences about Ron, by the way; I’m really...sorry about all that. But as to your current predicament, I’m not sure how me and Walt can be of much help.”  
  
“Well, the most urgent problem of course isn’t the money.” Phil leans back in his chair. “The real trouble is going to come when Arnold wakes up. He got a real good look at you, can ID you to the police. I heard he just got out of the ICU about an hour ago. If they work out that you’re the runaway Heisenberg lawyer, that’s going to put us all under the magnifier glass, know what I mean?”  
  
Saul holds his hands out. “Woah woah. Slow down, back it up. What do you mean _when Arnold wakes up?_ You’re saying he’s alive, mortal coil still attached?”  
  
“I hear it’s too early to say if he’ll walk again, but it seems he’ll pull through anyway. Sharon-- that’s Mrs. Campbell-- is beside herself, of course. Losing her husband and now this happening to her son. Some kind of spinal fracture.”  
  
Saul shakes his head. “Jesus.”  
  
“By the way, I’ve got antiseptic pads or whatever you need for your face. You don’t want those cuts getting infected.”  
  
“Thanks.” Saul pulls himself up out of the low chair. “Look, I’m gonna see if Walt’s up yet, then we can talk about our plan of attack on this whole thing. And, uh, the fish was great. It was good to have something that didn’t come out of a can.”  
  
“Well, there’s more where that came from.”  
  
“Uh...right.” Saul’s gaze flicks back toward the boathouse. He has a lot of new information for Walt, and none of it is going to be very welcome. He exhales a lungful of air. _Hoo boy..._  
  
\---  
  
Walt is hurriedly pulling his trousers on when Saul comes through the door.  
  
“What time is it,” he barks, “and why was I not woken up?”  
  
“Thought you needed some rest. And it’s just past nine. Look, uh, we have a bit of a situation brewing, on the heels of yesterday’s brouhaha. First of all, apparently Arnold is alive and in the hospital.”  
  
Walt shakes his head. “Arnold?”  
  
“Yeah, Ron’s son? The guy who tried to sell me his truck and then fell off the cliff?”  
  
“Ah. You’re saying he survived and...what? That he might identify you? Saul, we’ll be miles away from here by then. Our only concern right now is getting back to the site of the cabin.”  
  
The window shades are still drawn, and with the cloud cover outside, it’s no wonder Walt was still asleep. The room is nearly as dark as night.  
  
Saul lowers his voice, in case the sound carries down to the shore. “Uh, one or two hairs in the soup: It’s a safe bet that Phil knows about the money and is going to be looking for a way to take a cut. Second, Arnold is his problem too. Phil and Ron were running some kind of illegal sports betting ring, and the possibility of Arnold bringing the cops down on all this really has his panties in a twist.”  
  
“Just,” Walt holds up his hands, “get to the main point. What are you telling me here?”  
  
“He’s telling you,” Both men start, and turn toward the doorway to see Phil reaching the top of the stairs, “That we’re in this together now and that you need to finish what you started.”  
  
Walt squints at him. “Are you saying that you want me to sneak into a hospital and murder this man? Is that what you’re asking of me?”  
  
Phil shrugs, his hands in the pockets of his olive green jacket. “Now I didn’t say that. I’m a good Christian man, and I don’t see any cause for murdering anybody. All I need is for Arnold to keep quiet and forget about this whole thing.”  
  
“Oh, you want to keep this quiet!” Walt laughs dryly and claps his hands together. “Well then yes, by all means, have the target of a nationwide manhunt sneak into a hospital and murder this person in his bed. That is a truly brilliant plan!”  
  
Phil seems completely unaffected by Walt’s outburst. He leans against the doorframe and drawls, “Mr. Lambert, White, Heisenberg, whatever you want to be called, you’re the one who jumped straight to murder, not me. This doesn’t have to be that hard. How much money do you need to get back to Albuquerque? A couple thousand and my car?”  
  
“What are you getting at, exactly?”  
  
“I’m sure this’ll be smoothed over if we pay him off. Remember, at the end of the day, this is your responsibility.”  
  
Walt stares at Phil for a moment, his mouth partially open likes he’s not sure he’s hearing right. “Oh, this is my responsibility? Let me see if I have this straight: You and Ron were involved in criminal activity, of which Arnold was suspicious, leading him to mistakenly assault _my_ lawyer before getting himself grievously injured, and now you want to sweep the whole thing under the rug using _my_ money? No, I don’t think so.”  
  
Sensing that familiar dangerous edge creeping into Walt’s voice, Saul decides he’d better stop this discussion before it escalates any further. “Look, Phil, I’m sure we can work something out here to the...satisfaction of all parties. If you’d just give me a minute to confer with my client.”  
  
“Sure!” Phil shrugs. “Take your time! Of course, every second that passes gives Arnold another second to wake up and talk…”  
  
“That’s,” Saul holds up a hand, “Yeah. Time is of the essence. Got it.”  
  
Phil pulls the door closed and his footsteps make a dull thud as he descends the stairs back to the lakeshore.  
  
Saul holds his hands up, just a few inches from Walt’s chest as if to mollify him, to contain him. “He might be bluffing. Think about it: Maybe Arnold’s dead, but Phil knows who we are, so he concocts this scheme, hoping you’ll solve it by throwing money at it and then we’ll be on our way, none the wiser, purse a little lighter.” He starts to pace the room. “Or, there’s the glass half empty version: Phil is stalling us here while his buddies plunder the smoldering wreckage and find the barrel.”  
  
“In which case they have no reason to be keeping us alive.”  
  
“Unless they suspect, and rightfully so, that there’s an even bigger pile of dough still out there.”  
  
Walt’s eyes narrow, but one corner of his mouth tugs up into a smile, just for a vanishing second before settling back into a hard line. “Then it seems our best course of action is to gather more information, find out if this Arnold is alive and whether Phil is working alone.” He opens the door and steps out onto the staircase. “Hey! Excuse me, we’ve talked things over, and you’re right. Arnold cannot be permitted to speak to the police. I will--” Walt waves a hand like he’s grasping for the word-- “defer to you, and take whatever steps you suggest to ensure that he stays quiet.”  
  
Phil looks up from cleaning the grill and responds with a broad and genuine smile. “Glad to hear it!” He takes his cell phone out of his pocket and dials a number. “Heya, Ray, it’s me. ...Yeah. ...It’s a go. We’re all set for whenever you wanna come pick him up. ...Okay.” He flips the phone closed.  
  
“Who was that?” Walt asks, descending the stairs.  
  
“My pal Raymond. Runs a motel in town. He’s one of us, don’t worry. He’s going to give you a ride to the hospital.”  
  
Walt shakes his head. “I’m supposed to go to the hospital personally?”  
  
“Woah, woah.” At the top of the stairs, Saul holds up his hands to silence them both. “What’s this about Walt showing his face in public? This plan is raising more red flags than 1917 Moscow. And what if we say no? You’re gonna weigh us down and toss us in the lake, Luca Brasi style?”  
  
Phil laughs a hearty belly laugh. “I’m not the mafia! No, I’d just say you’re making a stupid decision and that would be it.” He shrugs and wanders over to his tackle box, sifting through his collection of lures in preparing for an afternoon of fishing. “You’re not hostages. My buddy Raymond can drop you both off where your cabin used to be if that’s what you want. Not that there’s anything there, nothing you would want at least.”  
  
Walt starts forward but stops, visibly straining under the effort of holding himself back, before apparently arriving at some internal decision, his face taking on an expression of cool resolution.  
  
\---  
  
About an hour passes before a car comes to pick up Walt, leaving Saul and Phil alone on the rocky shore. The far side of the lake isn’t too distant; it would take maybe an hour or two to walk the full circumference. But the area seems fairly secluded, with only one other dock visible some ways away. Saul has no idea how long Walt will be gone, and he feels awkward just standing around in the pebbles and patches of snow, watching Phil get his fishing line untangled. He’s tempted to ask about the online sports betting, his curiosity piqued as he wonders about what kind of system they used, whether they layered the earnings into the revenue of Phil’s store, and so on, but it’s probably better to keep his mouth shut about it.  
  
“Do you want some help?” Saul gestures down at the knotted fishing line.  
  
“You do much fishing?”  
  
“No. I tried it once, when I was a kid. In Lake Michigan.”  
  
Phil nods toward a stump that Saul can sit on. “Your father teach you?”  
  
“Uh, my brother actually. Well, he tried to teach me, anyway, but let’s just say I was no Saint Peter. Ultimately the only thing I caught was a hook in the arm; had to go in for a tetanus shot. Yeah, first and last attempt, heh.”  
  
“Hmm.” Phil squints at a knot. “Well, I’d say Walter White was a good catch. Not every day you land a client like that, huh?”  
  
“Personally, I’d rather catch gonorrhea. That guy’s been the biggest pain in the ass I ever-- Here, c’mon, hand it over.” Sick of watching Phil struggle with the tiny knot, Saul snatches the line and starts working at it. “I mean, look at where it’s got me!”  
  
Phil glances around the area, his hands in his pockets. “I dunno. You’re out here, fishing on a beautiful lake, opportunity for a fresh start, leave all your cares behind. When Ed moved me up here, it was tough for the first few months, but now… I wouldn’t change a thing. Not every day a guy gets a shot at a re-do.”  
  
“Frankly, I’m not really aiming for a fresh start in life. I see this more as a commercial break.” Saul gets the knot untied and hands the line back to Phil.  
  
“Maybe someday you’ll see things differently. Maybe you’ll be far away and you’ll look back and think, I shoulda stayed up on that mountain, with the fish and birds and God’s creatures.”  
  
Saul searches for something blandly noncommittal to say to end the conversation. “Well, never say never, I guess.”  
  
\---  
  
Walt spends his day in the passenger seat of a car parked at the far end of the hospital’s lot. It took three hours to get there, during which time barely a word passed between him and Raymond, except to learn that he owns a motel back in Sherman’s Bluff, which he runs with his wife, Maureen, who is inside the hospital, waiting with Arnold’s mother for news about his condition. As the sun sets, Arnold still hasn’t woken up.  
  
Walt takes a bite of his Sonic hamburger while Raymond turns his cell phone over in his hand again, over and over… Walt ignores his fidgeting. It was most likely Raymond who would have taken the money barrel from the cabin. Therefore, there’s an extremely high chance that it’s currently in the trunk of the car, nearly ten million dollars of Walt’s money just a few feet away. He’s almost grateful to Raymond for saving him the trip back up the mountain, however this evening turns out.  
  
“So we’re just going to sit here until Arnold wakes up and I...throw myself upon his mercy with a wad of cash?”  
  
Raymond takes a slurp of his milkshake. “No. Once it’s after hours, you just go up there and talk to him, you know? The cash isn’t with us. Safer that way.”  
  
“I’ve never even met this man before. Shouldn’t you have used Saul instead?”  
  
“I’ve read about you in the papers. You’re Heisenberg. You’ll get this done right.”  
  
Raymond is a taciturn man, with a flat tone of voice and flatter eyes. He’s clean-shaven, his dark hair is neatly combed, but Walt gets the feeling that this is a guy who’s trying to keep something contained inside him, like too much pressure in a soda bottle.  
  
Walt chooses his words carefully. “I just want to get something absolutely clear here, because you and I need to be on the same page. You want me to kill this injured man before he alerts the authorities to your illegal gambling ring and, if I don’t, you’re going to kill me and keep what you’ve stolen from my cabin.”  
  
Raymond uses his straw to loudly vacuum clean the bottom of his milkshake cup. “That’s a hell of an imagination you’ve got there, buddy.”  
  
Walt nods slowly. They pass the next few hours continuing their silent vigil.  
  
\---  
  
The rest of Saul’s day is uneventful. The fish weren’t biting, so he and Phil grill hotdogs for lunch, then he finally gets to wash his clothes. It pains him to toss his suit into the washing machine, but it’s not like he’s going to have an opportunity to send it out to the cleaners.  
  
Saul intends to stay up until Walt gets back so he can find out what ended up happening at the hospital. He lounges on the bed with a John Grisham that Phil lent him, squinting at the words in the insufficient lamplight, but around three in the morning his eyes become too heavy and he falls asleep with the book resting on his face.  
  
It feels like he’s barely slept at all when he’s awoken by insistent knocking at the door. Not in any hurry to get out from under the warm patchwork quilt, Saul takes his sweet time crossing the room and opening the door. It’s freezing outside, the early morning light just breaking over the crest of the mountains. Phil is jingling his car keys like it’s a nervous habit.  
  
“Ray and Walt are back. They went straight over to the motel after they left the hospital. Uh, Arnold passed away last night, something with his heart.” Phil shifts around on his feet, looking everywhere but straight at Saul. “Um, anyway, looks like they need you to get over there right away, to the motel.”  
  
“What’s happening now?”  
  
“I dunno, Ray just said they need you. I think they’re trying to divide up the money. Probably need a lawyer to make it all fair and square.”  
  
“Aw christ,” Saul sighs. He can only imagine what kind of hornet’s nest he’s about to step into. He pulls his suit off the space heater and quickly gets dressed.  
  
\---  
   
Walt sits down on the edge of the bed at the Alpine Court motel, his hands resting on his knees, trying to look relaxed and confident. By now, he really ought to be more cynical about other people’s capacity for conducting business like reasonable adults, but he’s going to take one more stab at it. “I have a proposition for you.”  
  
Raymond, his wife Maureen, and their two grown sons remain standing, the smoke from the sons’ cigarettes wafting around the room.  
  
“Yeah,” Ray asks, “what?”  
  
“What you have, the money you took from my cabin, is only a fraction of my total fortune.”  
  
“How much you worth?”  
  
“Eighty _million_ dollars. The other seventy are back in New Mexico, stolen from me. But I know by whom, and I know where they are. All we need to do is go,” he closes his palm into a clutching fist, “and take it.”  
  
Raymond and his wife exchange knowing glances.  
  
“You’re saying,” Maureen drawls, “that we should all go to Albuquerque, where they’re looking for you, and steal your money from...who?”  
  
“Just a-- a family of meth cooks. White trash, low lifes. It’s very simple.”  
  
Raymond squints at him. “A family. What, mom, pop, Billy, Sally?”  
  
“A man, his nephew, a few others. Not a large group.”  
  
“Okay, so a gang, then. You think that I should take my wife and sons across the country to rob a meth gang. Does that not sound as crazy to you as it does to me?”  
  
Walt rises from the bed and takes a slow step forward. “They have seventy _million_ dollars. Imagine that! And we could split it, fifty-fifty.”  
  
“Fifty-fifty?”  
  
Walt looks him straight in the eye. “Absolutely. Thirty-five each.”  
  
Raymond shakes his head. “I feel sorry for you, Walter. You think I’d put my family in that kind of danger for thirty-five million dollars? Hell, I already have ten! That’s greed, pure vile greed. And I think greed is the worst of all the sins, because it leads to all the others, y’know?”  
  
“Yes, I know,” Walt replies evenly, never breaking eye contact, “Just like I know you’re a hypocrite. Preaching to me about greed after what you had me do last night.”  
  
“I didn’t have you do anything, and you didn’t do anything. You walked into a hospital to have a conversation, and then a man had a heart attack. That has nothing to do with me.”  
  
“Don’t you see?” Walt shakes his hands like he’s throttling the air, “I’m handing you an opportunity, on a silver platter, to make millions, and after what I did for you, you won’t even lift a finger to help me!”  
  
“Listen,” Maureen holds out a hand, stopping the conversation. “Why don’t you just get that safe open for us, and then we can talk.”  
  
“What safe?”  
  
\---  
  
Phil rolls the station wagon to a halt in front of the Alpine Court motel. “Here we are, then. They’ll be in the office.”  
  
Saul gets out and trudges through the slushy parking lot toward the door. The motel has clearly seen better days. He remembers passing it on his first walk into town, recognizing the sign still advertising “color TV” and “clean rooms.” It probably hasn’t been changed since the Seventies. As he walks toward the front office, he tries not to gnaw too much on his lower lip. His main goal here is to get himself and Walt extricated from this whole situation without ol’ Heisenberg stirring up any more trouble. Hopefully, he’ll agree to parting with a share of the money in order to keep the peace.  
  
Upon entering the building, Saul is greeted by a large stuffed bear and enough antique knick-knacks of Americana to fill a Cracker Barrel. There’s no one at the reception desk, so he walks through the door marked ‘private.’  
  
He really, really shouldn’t be surprised by the scene that awaits him.  
  
Clearly, there’s been an altercation. Two younger men are clutching Walt, pinning his arms behind his back. Walt’s nose is bleeding and dripping all over the front of his oversized flannel shirt, and his lip is split.  
  
“Saul,” he shouts, straining against the grip of his captors. “Saul! Oh thank god. This safe, I’ve never seen it before. These people refuse to believe me...”  
  
On the other side of the backroom, Raymond and Maureen are standing by a wood desk, on top of which sits a locked metal safe, its sides partially blackened by heat and soot. It doesn’t take long for Saul to put two and two together: it’s the safe behind the picture frame in the cabin, the safe he never told Walt about, where he stored his gun back when they first arrived. It looks like Ramond grabbed it from the wreckage and missed the barrel entirely.  
  
Raymond strides forward and gives Saul a firm shove toward the desk. But then he takes a gentler tone when he speaks, as though trying to soften his actions. “Now, you seem like a reasonable guy. Why don’t you open this safe? After all, we can hardly divide the money if it’s all locked away. We’ll take a cut, then you two take the rest. Head back to New Mexico or wherever you want to go. Deal?”  
  
“Uh...yeah. Deal.” Saul glances toward Walt, willing his eyes to communicate _get ready to run_. He then turns back to the safe, takes a moment to remember the combination, and starts slowly turning the large dial. Is the gun loaded? ...Yes. He’s sure of that. He pauses and looks up. “Hey, I don’t have my briefcase or anything. Could we get, I don’t know, a pillowcase to put the money in? At the risk of looking like Rich Uncle Pennybags…”  
  
Maureen gives him a brief nod and strides out the door. That’s one down.  
  
He turns the lock through its last click. The door pops open. Not giving Raymond a chance to react, Saul reaches in and grabs the pistol, switches off the safety, and starts backing up toward the door. Raymond instinctively puts his hands up, his face reddening in sudden rage and shock.  
  
Saul beckons with the gun. “Okay, Heckle and Jeckle, let him go. Nice and easy, yeah, you two stay put.”  
  
Raymond’s sons release their hold on Walt. He walks forward toward Saul, breathing through his mouth and wiping his bloodied face on his shirt sleeve.  
  
“You okay?” Saul asks, and Walt nods. They continue backing up, swiftly, out into the main reception area, out through the office door, before breaking into a run toward the station wagon.  
  
Walt reaches it first and flings open the driver’s side door.  
  
“Out,” he demands. Phil, caught completely off guard, complies. Walt snatches the keys out of his hand and climbs in.  
  
Raymond and his sons have emerged from the office, but they remain rooted in place, as Saul aims his pistol vaguely in their direction from across the parking lot. Saul highly doubts he could hit any of them from this distance, plus the last thing they need is more bodies to deal with, but the threat is enough to hold them back as Saul slides into the station wagon.  
  
Walt starts it up and they go careening out of the motel’s parking lot.  
  
“You might want to drive a little less aggressively on these roads, just sayin’.”  
  
Ignoring Saul’s advice, Walt makes a sharp right turn, taking the car out of town and back up the winding mountain highway.


	11. Cat's in the Cradle

The light snowflakes that had been wafting through the breeze are rapidly giving way to a more serious storm, the wind blowing as though trying to push the car off the mountain road and send it careening into a ditch. Walt holds tight to the steering wheel and increases the speed of the windshield wipers, squinting through the onslaught of wet slush.  
  
Saul buckles his seatbelt. It’s obvious that Walt doesn’t understand winter driving; still, Saul can’t begrudge him his speed. He wants to hurry to retrieve the barrel just as much as Walt does, and then start heading down the mountain before they’re encased in a total whiteout.  
  
Walt swings a hard left up onto the narrow road to the cabin, the station wagon jerking and bouncing as the tires strain to find traction in the accumulating snow. Periodically, Saul glances up at the rear view mirror, but so far there’s been no sign of Raymond or Phil or anyone else following them. Maybe they aren’t interested in chasing armed criminals to a secluded location to rob them. Common sense; Saul had almost forgotten that still existed.  
  
Walt drives through the open gate and brings the car to a sudden halt before jumping out.  
  
The cabin’s remains are a sorry sight. The structure is caved in entirely, and sections of the roof and beams of charred framing rest on top of one another like a collapsed house of cards. The end that held the bathroom is gone completely, blown away when the propane tank exploded.  
  
Saul approaches the wreck, gingerly picking his way around the mess of splintered wood and twisted metal. A number of items are still recognizable: some broken plates, cans of food blown open, the old iron stove pretty much intact. He holds the hood of his coat over his head against the wind.  
  
He hears Walt’s voice. “Open the back of the car!”  
  
Saul turns to see that Walt has found the plastic tub of chemo packets that he had been able to save during the fire. Normally it wouldn’t be too heavy for one person to carry, but Walt is straining under the weight, his latest coughing spell making the cut on his lip bleed again. Saul opens the station wagon’s tailgate and, with a grunt, Walt hauls the tub into the storage compartment in the third row, sharing the space with Phil’s old blanket and a case of soda.  
  
“You ever had to sit back there as a kid?” Saul motions toward the rear-facing seats.  
  
Walt exhales a puff of visible breath and shakes his head.  
  
“I remember once, it must’ve been one of the hottest summers on record, in fact Kiss released “Hotter than Hell” that year, anyway we were driving to New York--”  
  
“Saul. Let’s just find the barrel.”  
  
\---  
  
It doesn’t take long for Saul’s hands to feel chapped and stiff as he works with Walt to haul pieces of framing off the wreckage. The snow is coming down fast, and while Saul’s winter coat is doing a good job of insulating him, he can’t say the same thing about his suit trousers. That’s what he gets for going for polyester. They say that when a suit looks shiny it’s a sign of low quality, but he’d always kind of liked the look, that bit of sheen.  
  
Walt interrupts his thoughts. “There!” He points to the glint of the barrel’s black lid among the ash and rubble that surround it. Taking hold of one end of a beam, he motions for Saul to grab the other end, and giving the task one more burst of energy, they toss the wood away.  
  
Saul hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath as he sighs in relief upon seeing that the lid held. Ten million up in smoke would have been too much to bear at this point. He reaches into the pile of heavy debris, grasps the barrel, and pulls it down onto its side, rolling it free.  
  
“There you are,” he puffs, catching his breath, “the stuff dreams are made of, yeah?”  
  
“Roll it over to the car. Let’s--” Walt stops abruptly, holding his hand up.  
  
Saul hears it too: the light jingle of keys. Ducking down, he follows Walt quickly over to the station wagon, scuttling like troops in the trenches on the western front. They crouch behind the car, just high enough to be able to peer over the hood.  
  
The jingling sound is getting louder, and now if Saul strains he can hear footsteps, soft in the snow. As quietly as he can, he moves toward the passenger door and opens it to retrieve the gun he left in the glove compartment. Then he takes a side step back toward Walt.  
  
Suddenly, Chaucer appears around the bend, focused on the ground and sniffing around. His collar was the source of the jingling sound, and it looks like he’s alone.  
  
“That’s Ron’s dog,” Saul whispers. “Must’ve gotten loose. Let’s stay here though, keep a low profile. He’s not too friendly.”  
  
Walt and Saul stay put as the dog ignores them, making a beeline for an unremarkable patch of ground. Chaucer’s big paws make quick work of the snow, the powder flying out behind him as if blown from a fan. Then he starts digging through the dirt with single-minded focus. Saul imagines that they could probably go about their business now without the dog so much as glancing up, but it’s better to stay hidden, just in case Chaucer isn’t alone after all.  
  
A few minutes pass before the german shepherd finds what he’s looking for. He stuffs his face into the hole and emerges with Ron’s trekking poles in his mouth. Chaucer trots around in a circle in delight at locating the source of his master’s scent, looking around expectantly, perhaps for the man himself. Seeing no one, though, he stops, his tail wagging slowly in hope. The snow falls on the dog’s thick coat, but he doesn't seem to mind as he stands still, waiting for Ron to emerge from wherever he must be hiding. Finally, though, Chaucer wanders off toward the woods behind the cabin, examining one tree and another, maintaining his hold on the silver poles as he disappears from view.  
  
Walt stands up. Saul follows him, and together they struggle to lift the barrel into the back of the station wagon, maneuvering it in next to the chemotherapy tub.  
  
“Jesus,” Saul sighs, brushing his hands off. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that a stop at a chiropractor can’t be worked into the itinerary?”  
  
“What day is this?”  
  
Saul shakes his head. “I think Tuesday. Could be Wednesday.”  
  
“It should take us two days to get back to Albuquerque, avoiding major cities where possible. Get in the car, and we can get out of these goddamned mountains.”  
  
“Hang on.” Saul opens the barrel and takes out a handful of cash. “Let’s leave this at the gate. A little extra insurance again Phil and company calling the cops. Enough to cover the cost of the car, anyway. I’d put it at what, early to mid Nineties?”  
  
“Fine, do what you like. But don’t waste any more time.”  
  
\---  
  
Saul doesn’t bother to tell Walt that it will be impossible to drive anywhere if the weather continues to get worse. That would just be stating the obvious. It’s a good thing they at least got back to the highway before the storm becomes an all-out blizzard.  
  
“I can’t see a damn thing,” Walt growls, no longer able to drive any faster than a crawl. They haven’t seen one other car on the road, not even when they passed through Sherman’s Bluff, leaving behind the motels and the bar and Phil’s general store. Saul’s glad to be done with that town, at least. That place must have been cursed. Or else Walt is just a bad luck charm.  
  
“Look, let’s find somewhere to pull over, wait it out. If we slide off the road, we’ll be sitting ducks and can forget about slipping under the radar. Not to mention, I left my AAA membership card back in Albuquerque.”  
  
A mile or so down the road, Walt finds a small turnoff that leads to a trailhead. He takes it, driving far enough in that the car won’t be visible from the road, then parks.  
  
The storm and dense forest cast the interior of the station wagon in shadow. It’s less ‘winter wonderland,’ Saul reflects, and more ‘twas a dark and stormy night,’ despite the fact that his watch says it’s barely past lunch time.  
  
Saul’s stomach growls. “I haven’t had a bite to eat all day.” He reclines his chair and, with some awkward maneuvering, is able to clamber into the second row and grab a can of Mountain Dew from the back. “Want one?”  
  
Walt glances back. “Sure, why not.”  
  
“Heh, stuff’s the same color as your chemo. Radioactive green, heheh.” He takes off his winter coat and suit jacket, sprawls out across the bench seat, and hands Walt up a can. “Y’know, Coca-cola was originally marketed as a substitute for morphine. Not that this toxic industrial waste in any way resembles good ol’ Classic Coke, but you’ll probably feel better, have a little more pep and bonhomie, if you keep your blood sugar up, just saying.”  
  
Walt takes a sip before setting the can in the cupholder. He taps his hand intermittently on the armrest, as the minutes pass. The storm howls outside, but the heater warmed the car up to a comfortable, even toasty, level.  
  
Just as boredom threatens to descend, Walt adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see Saul without having to turn around. “So, I'm curious. When, exactly, had you been intending to shoot me?”  
  
“Haha, woah! Where did-- where did that come from?” Saul puts on his best puzzled smile, with squinting eyes and a crooked grin.  
  
“Are you really going to try to weasel around the question? I hoped by now that we could talk like men, after everything that’s happened. Keeping a secret gun. If you were planning to kill me, what have you been waiting for?”  
  
“I haven’t been planning to kill you at all! Jesus!” Saul sets his drink down so he can gesture without spilling it. “What’d you think I followed you up here for? I can’t fight a gang of Nazis. I mean, do I look like John McClane to you? I need you if I’m going to get my share after the dust settles.”  
  
“Ah yes.” Walt narrows his eyes as his lips betray a smile. “Your share.” He gets up out of the driver’s seat and climbs into the back with Saul, visibly straining as he hauls himself over the center console. He takes a moment to catch his breath.  
  
Saul slides over, giving him a wide berth. Walt reaches over the back of the seat and pops the lid off the barrel. He turns back to Saul and holds out a sorted wad of hundred dollar bills.  
  
“What if I gave this to you now? I might as well. After all, the next time I turn my back, the next time I fall asleep, you could shoot me, drive off with ten million. It wouldn’t be difficult, even for you. Do you really expect that your share at the end will be more than that? Are you really holding out for more?”  
  
Saul glances down at the money, unsure of what kind of a game Walt is playing. “Um. I figured we’d cross that bridge when we come to it.”  
  
Walt waves the stack of bills at Saul, but his tone is casual. “Take it. You told me before that you wanted to settle up, let’s start now. You’re always looking for ways to chip fragments off my legacy, grasping at whatever you can. Take it.”  
  
Saul reaches for the cash, hesitantly, but Walt pulls it away. “Not like that.” He smiles, almost fondly. “Open your mouth.”  
  
“I don’t-- _hrmmf..._ ”  
  
Saul wishes Walt would give him some kind of signal, something to let him know when he’s issuing a legitimate threat versus when he just wants to initiate one of his power games. But then again, Saul reflects, maybe it’s not necessarily a case of either-or. Difference without a distinction. He swallows, trying to keep the money as dry as possible between his teeth.  
  
With one knee on the bench seat, Walt swings the other leg over Saul so that he’s straddling him, pinning him in place. Saul’s red and silver tie is loose around his neck, but Walt takes hold of it and pulls it tighter until the knot is digging into his throat. Saul tilts his head backward to ease the pressure, but Walt’s unrelenting grip follows him.  
  
“There. Look at you,” Walt chuckles. “like a dog on a leash with a bone in its mouth.”  
  
Saul feels a flash of resentment wash over him, and he fixes Walt with what he hopes is an indignant frown. But Walt’s only response is a quiet smile as he twists his hand in Saul’s tie, increasing the pressure. It hurts, and Saul’s heart races as he fears his circulation is cut off, but then Walt releases him and moves his hands to Saul’s shoulders instead.  
  
It takes a bit of fumbling, but Walt soon maneuvers Saul so that he’s laid flat on his back across the bench seat. Walt looms over him, planting his knee over Saul’s crotch and holding him down. Saul squirms beneath his weight, already fully hard.  
  
Walt leans down close, close enough that Saul can feel his hot breath on his cheek when he speaks, at just above a whisper. “You haven’t shot me yet because you know perfectly well who you belong to. You haven’t forgotten that you’re _my_ lawyer. You do what I tell you, and you’re _grateful_ for whatever I give you in return.”  
  
Saul moans around the cash stuffed in his mouth, lifting his hips to meet the pressure of Walt’s knee.  
  
“That’s right, show me how much you enjoy this.”  
  
Saul responds by grinding eagerly back against Walt’s leg.  
  
“You really are a whore of a lawyer. As much as I enjoy debasing you, I must say, you really don’t need my help in that department.” The rough lines of his craggy face pull into a smile.  
  
Saul continues to thrust his hips up, desperate for more friction. He’s done plenty of kinky shit in his life, but this is on a different level. This isn’t like paying one of his escorts to call him names while they fuck. With Walt it’s real, it’s personal. And he’s not always sure how he feels about that. Well, other than the obvious.  
  
“Mmph--”  
  
Walt takes the money out of his mouth. “What was that?”  
  
“Gimme a second to get these pants off.”  
  
“I think you’re good as you are.” Holding up the wad of cash, he asks, “What should I do with this, hm? Shall I put it back in my barrel with the rest? Or back in your mouth?”  
  
“My mouth.”  
  
Walt slaps Saul across the face, and it takes the lawyer a moment to recover as the sudden shock settles into a wave of prickling heat.  
  
“Ask,” Walt’s voice comes out deeper and rougher than before, _“properly.”_  
  
Saul’s cock is straining against his slacks. “Please put the money back in my mouth, Heisenberg.” Jesus, he thinks, his voice sounds shaky as fuck. “And, uh, could you do that again?”  
  
“What?” Walt gazes down at him in amusement.  
  
“Hit me again.”  
  
Walt obliges, slapping him harder, before muffling his cry with the wad of cash. Saul continues grinding his hips upwards, like some desperate high school kid, but he doesn’t care. There’s no one here he needs to impress. And anyway, putting on a good show for Walt can’t hurt.  
  
As the minutes pass, Walt’s arms start to shake from the exertion of holding himself up. He abruptly climbs off Saul and sits back on the seat. “I think you’ve had about all you deserve.”  
  
Saul seriously doubts he could ever have come from grinding against Walt’s leg through their clothes, yet he’s painfully hard, unable to hold back a needy whine at the sudden loss of friction. Maybe Walt will fuck him again, hard, like the night the cabin burned down. Saul looks up at Walt, craving not just the physical release, but the psychological release that only that kind of intensity can give him. His rational mind, though, swims up through the heavy fog of arousal to point out that Walt does not appear to be in a state to fuck anyone anytime soon. He looks so tired, like he’s approaching the point of complete exhaustion. And it’s no wonder really, considering the last few days. Still…  
  
He takes the money out of his mouth and sets it on the floor with his coat and jacket. “So you’re just gonna leave me hanging? C’mon, blue balls are no joke, you know that. Remember your stint at the Beachcomber?”  
  
“You’re right. I don’t enjoy being left unsatisfied.” Walt unzips the baggy khakis he borrowed from Phil and takes out his cock. “Why don’t you do what you do best.”  
  
Saul maneuvers so that he’s face down in Walt’s lap, licks his hand, and slides it around Walt’s shaft before closing his mouth around him.  
  
Giving his balls a gentle tug, Saul takes Walt’s entire length into his mouth, fighting against his gag reflex as the tip slides over the back of his throat. But despite Saul’s best efforts and, he likes to think, his skill, Walt is clearly having a difficult time staying hard.  
  
After five minutes or so, Saul comes up for some fresh air, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Hey, tell me what you need. More tongue? Less tongue? Maybe try some teeth? Heh, I live to serve.”  
  
Walt is resting his head on the back of the seat and doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “It’s fine. Keep going.”  
  
Saul resumes his ministrations, sliding his tongue along the underside of Walt’s shaft, twisting and tugging his slick hand at the base, while also trying to stop his combover from flopping down into his eyes. But preventing Walt from going soft is an uphill battle.  
  
“I could, uh, try a little dirty talk, if that’s what flies your kite. Make me choke on your huge cock, Heisenberg. That sort of thing?”  
  
Walt takes his glasses off and tucks them into his shirt pocket. “Hmm.”  
  
Saul speeds up his hand, pumping up and down Walt’s length. “You wanna shove yourself into my ass? Blow your load inside me? What if Skyler was watching us now; think she’d be getting wet? Uh, okay, let’s try a different tack. Hey, I’m taking shots in the dark here. Maybe if you ordered me around; you get off on power, right? You killed Gus Fring, burned his empire to the ground, made eighty million bucks. You’re a regular Daddy Warbucks! Yeah, that’s it. Your dirty lawyer needs a good scolding, Heisendaddy.”  
  
_“What?”_ Walt swats Saul’s hand away. “You’re utterly useless. Just forget it.” Grabbing him by the hair, he shoves Saul’s face down hard against his leg. With his other hand, Walt strokes his own cock, eyes closed, as a satisfied hum starts to build in the back of his throat.  
  
Walt’s grip is very tight, and Saul is concerned that he might lose some hair if he moves, so he lets Walt continue to hold him firmly in place. Was Walt always this bony? Despite his vague curiosity about what kind of fantasies Walt is indulging in, Saul knows better than to ask. Walt’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed in concentration.  
  
Some minutes pass, and Saul’s neck is getting sore, but finally Walt’s hand speeds up to a desperate pace. He pulls Saul up closer to his cock and, with a grunt, comes in hot streams on his face, down his tie, dripping onto his dark red shirt.  
  
Looking down at his lawyer in satisfaction, Walt finally releases his grip on his hair, then tucks himself back into his pants.  
  
Saul sits up, wipes his face on his sleeve, then glances down at his shirtfront. “Hey, uh, you got a Kleenex or something?”  
  
“Check the glove box.”  
  
Saul clambers back into the front seat, his knees popping, and opens the glove compartment. Out clatters the pistol that had served as the catalyst for...whatever the hell that was. Saul stuffs it back in behind a mess of crumpled maps before Walt is reminded of how this got started. Fishing around, he finds a stack of brown fast food napkins and starts trying to wipe off his silk tie before Walt’s cum dries.    
  
After a few minutes, he hears Walt softly snoring, and glances back to see him sound asleep, hands clasped in his lap, head resting on the back of the seat, mouth partway open. The lines of his face soften when he’s asleep, so he looks healthier, more youthful, but by the same token, more vulnerable. And what he said was true, really: Saul is taking a terrible risk in trying to grow ten million dollars into eighty. Bird in the hand, and all that. But maybe the risk itself is part of the appeal, the roll of the dice, the thrill of the hunt. If money was his only goal, he would be back in New Mexico right now, sitting behind a cocobolo desk at the law firm of Davis, Main, and McGill.  
  
He spits on the napkin and keeps trying to rub the stains out before they set. He’s glad he made the choice to forge his own path. It’s had its ups and downs to be sure, but it’s one hell of a ride. The tie is clearly a lost cause, though. He slides it out from his collar and tosses it into the back.

\---

It isn’t long before Saul falls asleep too, and by the time both men wake up, it’s the middle of the night, dawn still a few hours off.  
  
“Jesus,” Saul mutters, “I’m starving.”  
  
Outside, the storm has finally stopped, but not before dropping a truly impressive pile of snow. There’s no way they can drive back to the highway until a plow comes through. And Saul wouldn’t be at all surprised if this trail is only open seasonally and, therefore, the turnoff for it goes unplowed during winter. That’s a very distinct possibility, in fact. After a few moments’ deliberation, he decides to voice these concerns to Walt.  
  
Walt rubs his eyes and puts his glasses back on, now fully awake. “You’re paid to be my counselor, let’s hear some counsel. What would you suggest we do if we are, in fact, stuck here?”  
  
Saul shrugs. “When you’re buried up to your neck in shit, you buy a shovel. And I mean that literally, by the way. We’re what, a hundred feet from the highway? And a mile or two out of town? If this road is unserviced, then from where I’m standing we’ve got a grand total of three options. Abandon the car and roll the barrel down the mountain, dig our way out, or sit here until we turn Donner Party, and I know which one of those I’m strongly in favor of, because frankly you don’t taste very good, no offense.”  
  
Walt shakes his head. “Fine. But you’ll need to find somewhere other than Ron’s store to buy your shovel.”  
  
“Uh, yeah, no shit! Haha, thanks for the hot tip. I’ll try the gas station convenience store, they might put a few out this time of year. Or I’ll just...find one somewhere. I’ll take care of it.”  
  
“You should go now, before the sun rises, so you’re less likely to be seen.”  
  
Saul chews on his lip. Although the night is dark and freezing, he hates to admit that Walt has a point, considering that with only one road through town, he needs as much cover as possible. Reaching behind the seat, he grabs his jacket and coat and the several thousand dollars bundled up with them, and gets dressed.  
  
\---  
  
The storm dropped a couple feet of snow, and Saul has to give the car door a good shove to get it open. The air feels like it’s about ten or twenty degrees, but the wind has stopped, so it’s not as bad as it could be. Saul shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets, though. What he wouldn’t do for a pair of gloves! He’s always had cold hands and feet, maybe it’s poor circulation. He pulls the fluffy hood over his head and starts trudging through the deep snow toward the highway.  
  
Sure enough, he spots a bright yellow sign at the entrance to the turnoff that states “No Winter Maintenance,” and another advising that the trail is closed. At least that means Walt will be safe from prying eyes until he gets back.  
  
It’s an uphill walk back to Sherman’s Bluff, but not steep. Saul is prepared to jump behind the bushes at the first sign of headlights, but no vehicles pass him at all during the walk. He has to admit that, frankly, it’s kind of nice to be out of the car for a little while, getting some fresh air to help clear his head. Of course, he’d rather be somewhere warm and comfortable where he can kick his feet up, maybe get a massage, but this is alright too.  
  
He reaches Sherman’s Bluff in under an hour, the bright fluorescents of the Chevron (with Techron!) station shining through the pre-dawn darkness to let him know he’s arrived. He walks up past the pumps to the 24-hour convenience store. Outside are several displays of large seasonal items: stacks of firewood and packaged fireplace logs, Blue Rhino propane tanks (oh, the memories), jugs of antifreeze, and yes, snow shovels. He picks one up and takes it inside to pay.  
  
He’d better grab some food, too, and maybe some water or something to drink besides Mountain Dew. He’s waging an inner debate between regular Snickers and the kind with almonds when a quiet voice from the next aisle over catches his attention.  
  
“Information leading to his capture, you know? Can’t hurt to try, anyway.”  
  
“Well yeah, I mean it’s better than chasing them down, but still… You really want to get the cops poking around here?”  
  
Saul stays crouched down, straining his ears. He’s pretty sure it’s Phil and Raymond. Shit shit shit…  
  
“I shut it all down after Ron disappeared. It’s fine. You know, I can get out of debt, you can finally fix up your motel, and when shit goes down, it goes down two thousand miles away or whatever instead of in our backyard. Hey, you want hot ‘n spicy or teriyaki?”  
  
“I like spicy. Think I should run it past Maureen first, see what she thinks?”  
  
“Well… Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, all’s I’m saying to that.”  
  
“So we say he’s coming into Santa Fe--”  
  
“Albuquerque.”  
  
“Right, and what? We need more than that. Said he was gonna rob some gang, do we know anything about them? Names?”  
  
“I’ll call up Ed, he might know something.”  
  
“Like he’d tell you. What do you think White’s paying him for?”  
  
“Look, we’ll figure this out. But this is one fish we’re not letting off the hook. Hang on, lemme go pay.”  
  
Saul stays perfectly still as he hears Phil step up to the register, buy his jerky and gas. He doesn’t hear Raymond, he must be standing still, waiting in the aisle.  
  
Raymond calls, “Hey, you want a Kit-Kat?”  
  
Saul holds his breath waiting for Phil’s response.  
  
“Nah, don’t buy any of that. I’ve got lots of candy bars at the store. Come back with me, we’ll talk this thing through, I’ll call Ed once we’ve got it hammered out.”  
  
At this point they change the subject to what they each thought of the finale to _24_ , and Saul exhales, listening as the two men walk out of the store, back toward Raymond’s car. Saul waits until they’re gone before he stands up, but once the coast is clear, he knows there’s no time to waste. He and Walt need to get back to Albuquerque tout de suite to stay ahead of this shitstorm. He’d better make it two shovels.


	12. Bats out of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: needles

Walt is tired. Exhausted, really, if he’s honest. Not just physically, but mentally. Perhaps it’s a touch of world-weariness, but then, when he thinks back over the last few days, he’s had a hell of a week. The storm outside the car is blocking out the afternoon sun, but day or night, it doesn’t matter. Walt could sleep for hours, if only he could clear his mind.

Considering that Saul is amenable to it, Walt really has no qualms about using his lawyer to blow off some steam. The trouble, Walt reflects as he watches Saul’s head bobbing up and down in his lap, is that he’s far more than merely amenable to it, he’s enjoying himself quite a bit more than Walt is. And now Walt is feeling pressured to perform, which, considering that he’s an overtired, middle-aged cancer patient, results in a shameful stab of self-consciousness, a bucket of ice water thrown over his libido.

Walt closes his eyes and tries to clear his head. He attempts to quiet his perpetual inner monologue, the way his mind runs through plans, over and over, for his assault on Welker’s compound. And underneath, the ever-present thoughts of who else is waiting for him in Albuquerque. Will he see Skyler, Junior, Holly? Will he talk to them, explain himself, give them closure? How will he-- No, he needs a few minutes. A few minutes of total silence.

But now Saul’s mouth is off his flagging cock, and oh god he’s talking again, an incessant stream of jabber about Skyler and Fring and everything else that Walt desperately needs a respite from. So he shoves Saul away and picks one of his standard, well-worn fantasies to indulge in to bring himself off quickly, his mind fastforwarding through the preamble to the part where he fucks Gretchen in the laboratory while Elliot watches impotently.

He finishes, and is immediately ready to try to get a decent night’s sleep. The middle row of the station wagon doesn’t make the most comfortable bed, but Walt knows he’s going to be out cold in two minutes at this point.

It’s unlikely that he’ll ever see Gretchen and Elliot again. And good riddance, really. There’s a lot of his life that he’ll never see again, though, or if he does, it won’t be the same. He tries not to think about the life he lost, watching Junior grow up, waking up to the smell of Skyler cooking bacon and eggs, eating Christmas dinner with Hank and Marie, Hank making an ass of himself with his bawdy jokes and Marie pretending to disapprove. 

No, that’s all the rose colored glasses of hindsight. Walt tries to remember what it was like to be forced to scrub some douchebag’s sports car under the scornful glare of Bogdan, all the myriad little humiliations that made his old life unbearable. Where had it all gone wrong? What was the turning point that set his life careening off course? It certainly wasn’t the cancer. It must have been long, long before that.

But Walt is asleep before his reverie can take him any further.

\---

After sending Saul on a walk back up to town to fetch a snow shovel, Walt finds himself with nothing to do. He’s been asleep for about twelve hours and doesn’t feel like he can sleep anymore. And if he could, he wouldn’t gain any more benefit. He runs a hand over the stubble that now surrounds his goatee and covers his head. He almost wishes his current round of chemo would hurry up and make his hair fall out. It will do no good wandering back to civilization looking like a transient. To that end, he opens the car door, pushing it against the snow, and grabs a handful of the freshly fallen powder. Leaning out of the car, Walt uses the snow to clean up the blood that’s dried around his nose and split lip where Raymond’s son hit him. His face is still very sore and tender, but the snow feels good and it doesn’t seem like anything is broken.

He shuts the door against the cold. How many days has it been since his last chemo? It was the evening the cabin burned down, just two nights ago he realizes. 

Three sharp taps on the glass make him jump, his gaze darting toward the window. He’s blinded, though, by a flashlight being waved in his face. Dumbstruck, Walt freezes, trying to remember where the gun is. Did Saul take it? Damn, he wasn’t paying close enough attention.

The unknown interloper taps on the window again, more insistently. As Walt’s eyes adjust to the light, he realizes he’s being greeted by a park ranger. Son of a bitch.

He rolls down the window.

“How’d you get stuck out here,” the ranger greets him.

“Well, it was...my own stupidity, really,” Walt begins. “You see, I was driving down the mountain and I wanted to pull over somewhere just for a bit of rest, since I didn’t want to drive drowsy of course, and also to wait out this storm, this massive blizzard that made it completely impossible to maintain any reasonable distance of visibility whatsoever. And then, somehow, I just didn’t notice that the road wasn’t serviced, probably because the sign was hidden, so you can imagine what a conundrum I found myself in when I woke up a few minutes ago. I am so grateful, sir, that you are patrolling the area. Because the worst of it is, ha, my new cell phone, it just doesn’t seem to want to work on this side of the mountain. It’s the darndest thing; supposedly I have better nationwide coverage than the other major providers, but that’s...ah. Anyway. I would be exceedingly grateful if I could borrow your cell phone and call a tow truck to haul my car out of this mess. That would be so helpful. I would really appreciate it.”

“Of course, sir, I’m calling one right now! You okay in the meantime? You’re warm? Hydrated?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I am completely comfortable and well-prepared. Thank-you.”

“Remember, you should never go out in weather like yesterday’s without letting someone else know exactly where you’re headed and what time to expect you back.”

Walt nods, now feeling like the ranger is overstaying his welcome. “Absolutely. Duly noted.”

“We just had a hiker go missing on this mountain a few weeks ago. That’s the only reason why I was able to find you today so early. I’m out placing markers; we’re combing this area again. If you’ve seen this man or have any information about him, please let us know immediately.” The ranger reaches into his pocket and pulls out a photo of Ron.

Walt squints and shakes his head. “Hmm. No, sorry. I certainly wish you the best of luck in finding him, though.”

\---

The ranger hangs around the area for another ten minutes or so, until the tow truck arrives from town. Then he tips his hat to Walt and leaves to rejoin the search effort. It isn’t long before the station wagon is unstuck from the deep snow and deposited safely back at the mouth of the trailhead cutoff.

Walt thanks the tow truck driver profusely.

“Well, it was my pleasure sir. Lots of folks gettin’ stuck out here this winter, it’d probably be smarter to stay indoors when the weather turns. Good luck on the rest of your trip.”

“Thank-you. I really do appreciate your help.”

“That’ll just be seventy-five dollars, and then I’ll be getting on my way.”

Somehow, it had slipped Walt’s mind that he would need to pay the tow truck driver. Perhaps because he was on national forest land, and because the ranger had called the truck, he assumed (unconsciously and naively) that the service would be free, given the emergency nature of his dilemma. Feeling stupid, Walt realizes he has no cash on him, and it would hardly be wise to open the station wagon’s hatchback and reveal the big barrel… Walt pats down his jacket pockets, buying some time while he thinks.

“That is...no problem. Let me see… where did I leave my wallet? Ah, I must have left it in the car. Just, just hang on a moment.” He opens a back door and looks down at the floor, hoping to get lucky. Sure enough, there’s a hundred dollar bill from earlier lodged under the passenger’s seat. It’s a little damp, but it’ll have to do.

Walt settles up with the driver, then gets back in the car to wait. He feels exposed sitting just off the highway like this. Saul had better be on his way back and moving at a decent pace. At this point, the most expedient thing to do might be to start driving back toward town and meet him on the return walk. But of course, that would create a risk of them missing each other, Saul potentially stumbling into the park ranger… No, the best thing Walt can do is continue to sit in the car, on the highway, and hope Saul is walking briskly.

Another twenty minutes pass before Walt hears a knocking on the window and unlocks the doors. Saul tosses the snow shovels into the back then slides into the passenger seat, rubbing his freezing hands together.

“Took me a while to find the car. Guess you found a way out that was a little easier on the back?”

“I had it towed. I trust you had no trouble in town?”

“That’s-- Look, you may want to step on the gas and we’ll talk on the way down. The Doomsday Clock is a minute to midnight, and if we don’t get back to Albuquerque tout de suite, it’ll be all eighty million down the crapper.”

“What are you talking about,” Walt asks, but he starts the gas anyway and does as his lawyer says.

“Raymond and Phil. Before you ask, no, I laid low. They didn’t see me. But I heard them talking, and they’re looking to play Let’s Make a Deal with the DEA. Once the Feds get a whiff of your eighty mil, they’ll descend on Welker’s place faster than you can say auf wiedersehen.”

“How would they know about Welker?”

“Come on, Phil’s in contact with Ed. And that’s a guy who does his research! If Ed rolls--”

Walt doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Ed won’t roll.”

“Yeah? What makes you so sure? Once you broke his rules of engagement, that ship sailed. And if our wannabe Rain Man and his heavy offer him more than you’re currently worth, I wouldn’t place any bets on Ed’s loyalty. After all, it would be his ass on the line, too, and he errs on the side of safety.”

Walt thinks for a few moments. “Then it sounds to me like our plan is unchanged. Get back to Albuquerque as quickly as possible. We can make it in about thirty, thirty-five hours or so, if you assist with the driving.”

“That should keep us ahead of that shitstorm, but just barely. The Feds will move fast on this.”

Walt gives a half shrug of acknowledgement. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to move faster.” His voice is firm, definite, but he’s trying to talk around his sputtering cough.

\---

The road widens as they drive, the landscape around them appearing deceptively flat. It will take a while to get out of the White Mountains, although they’re finally able to pick up speed as they overtake the highway’s early morning snow plows.

Saul’s eyes begin to get heavy, so he tucks his head down and tries to nap. But sleep is a no-go. So instead he talks.

“Hey Walt, I was thinking and-- now just hear me out on this-- What if we let Phil make his deal, tip off the DEA? Hang on, I said hear me out. No one ever would have found the money you buried if you hadn’t led ‘em to it. I’d bet the same goes for Welker. He’ll have it stashed somewhere on lock-down; the Feds will comb through his compound and come up with jack squat! But what they will have done is taken care of your revenge for your brother-in-law, leaving us a clear path to finding your riches, sans Nazis. Assuming of course that you can evade capture, which is going to be numero uno on the list of problems anyway.”

“I want Welker’s crew dead, do you understand that? Not in custody, not on trial, not incarcerated.”

“Oh, they’ll be dead alright! Heavily-armed, cop-killing survivalists? Facing down a police raid? Heh, the bullets will fly. They’re not walking out of that one.”

“Saul. I’m the one who’s going to do this, do you understand? It has to be me. End of discussion.”

“Hey, no need to get your panties in a twist. I’m just tossing ideas around, a bit of brainstorming.”

“When I need advice, I’ll ask for it. In the meantime, grab the map out of the glove box. I think we’re approaching our cutoff.”

Saul takes the map out of the glove compartment, noting that the gun is still where he left it. 

“Just out of curiosity,” he finally ventures, “do you have any idea where your barrels are stashed?”

“Based on that newspaper, the fact that my product is being manufactured, I know Welker is partnered with Jesse. Jesse will know.”

“Big assumption there! Wow! Heh, not to mention, the last time either of us saw the kid, he wasn’t feeling too buddy-buddy. Now maybe he’s willing to do you a solid for old time’s sake, but we’re not exactly the three amigos we used to be. And, considering the last time he came into money he threw it around like Eva Peron, I don’t think offering him a cut is going to be an effective motivator. So obviously it stands to reason that you’re planning to take a more hardball approach, in which case--”

“Saul. Please. I’ll take care of it. Your job is to find a way to get my money to my family without it being confiscated..”

Saul purses his lips and says nothing. 

The scenery continues to roll by as the station wagon heads down the gentle grade, and after a few minutes Walt reaches over and switches on the radio. 

The reception isn’t so great, with clouds overhead and mountains all around, and Johnny Cash’s voice pops and flutters. One of these days and it won't be long, I'll rejoin them in a song. I'm gonna join the family circle at the throne. Oh no the circle won't be broken…

Walt twists the dial. “We need to find a news station.”

\---

They drive on for a half hour, barely slow enough to not get pulled over. There’s a couple of touchy run-ins with black ice, but Saul is just grateful that Walt doesn’t send them sliding into a tree. Around midmorning they arrive at a town a little larger than Sherman’s Bluff, a ski resort with a main street lined with victorian houses converted into restaurants and bed & breakfasts, shops selling trinkets and camping gear, a few larger inns. They pass a log cabin fondue restaurant and a big red barn selling antiques. Icicles line every roof. On a clearer day, the town would be very picturesque, a postcard opportunity on every corner.

Walt pulls into a Citgo station. Behind the pumps, the convenience store is housed in a little white and green Cape Cod, wooden signs swinging from the eaves, advertising cigarettes and lotto tickets. While Walt waits with the car, Saul goes inside to pay for a full tank and pick up some necessities: bottled water, toiletries, protein bars, two steaming cups of coffee. A “disguise” is probably too little, too late, but he does his best, choosing a pair of cheap reading glasses and a couple of baseball caps with the Red Sox logo. Better than nothing, at least. He and Walt have both gotten punched in the face recently, and going around town looking like they just stepped off the set of Raging Bull isn’t going to make them less conspicuous. Saul supposes that if anyone asks, he could say they were in a car accident. After all, the front bumper of the station wagon is a little dented, never mind the rust. In any case, it can’t hurt to pick up a first aid kit, too. He doesn’t doubt they’ll need it sooner or later.  
And while he’s at it, he asks the cashier for a pack of Wilmingtons.

Saul hands over a few twenties, then heads back to the car. 

“Here,” he hands Walt the large paper coffee cup, “Drink up. Can’t have you falling asleep behind the wheel.”

Walt starts gassing up the car, then takes a sip of the coffee. He grimaces and sets it down on the hood. “Did you get the saltines like I asked?”

“Didn’t see any. Got a bag of Chex Mix, though.”

Walt shakes his head. “Go back in. I just want something bland.”

“Uh, how about pretzels?”

“Yes, yes. That’ll do fine.” He waves Saul away. 

Halfway back to the door, Saul turns around and is about to call, “You could just eat the pretzels out of the Chex Mix,” but before he can finish the sentence, he sees Walt drop the gas nozzle, hold up a hand as if trying to steady himself, and then collapse, face-forward, onto the concrete. Saul’s first instinct is to dart forward, but he stops himself, not wanting to attract attention. He casually saunters over to the car, glancing around to make sure no one’s watching. He puts the nozzle back in the holder, then opens the door to the station wagon’s middle passenger row. Crouching down, Saul wraps his arms around Walt’s torso and tries to haul him up. Walt is still breathing, but he’s out cold. And while he’s gotten thinner over the past couple months, it’s still a challenge to move that kind of dead weight. Saul is definitely going to need a chiropractor after this. A real one.

After some awkward maneuvering, Saul is able to get the unconscious man lying down across the bench seat. Then he covers him with Phil’s dusty old blanket and buckles the seat belts over his shoulders and legs so he won’t roll onto the floor if Saul hits the brakes too hard. He also grabs the coffee off the hood.

Saul climbs into the front seat, starts the car, and pulls back onto the main road. He’ll take stock of Walt’s condition soon, but the first priority is to get out of town. Someone across the street could have seen Walt collapse and have already called an ambulance, for all he knows. It’s not long before the quaint buildings are replaced by nothing but trees on either side of the highway. 

Saul pulls the car over. Parked at the side of the road, he sips his coffee and takes stock of the situation.

Right now, he has both far less and far more than he’s ever had in his life. His only possessions are the clothes on his back, a few bags of snacks, two useless snow shovels, and a loaded pistol. Beyond that, he’s driving a stolen vehicle containing an unconscious drug lord and over nine million in cash. If the universe is trying to tell him something, it seems to be saying, Jesus Christ, do I have to spell this out for you? He knows a guy who knows a guy who could get him smuggled down to Mexico. Getting properly set up down there would cost him dearly, but there would still be enough money left over to live out his life in reasonable comfort, not luxuriously, but hopefully on a beach, trying to lay low and stay as anonymous as possible… Because the fact is, Saul’s only shot at the rest of the money is tied to Walt’s ability to obtain it, and those odds are looking longer and longer by the hour, especially if the cops have already been tipped off.

Saul sets his coffee down and chews on his lower lip. Finally, he cranes his neck around to look in the backseat and see how Walt is doing.

Walt’s eyes are open and he’s staring back. “How long was I out?”

“A half hour, give or take.”

“I’m fine now. You need to keep driving--hrmph--” Walt is seized by a coughing fit. He hurriedly fumbles with the seatbelt, releasing his restraints and sitting upright so he can catch his breath. He waves his hand up at the bags in front seat. “I need water.”

Saul hands him a bottle. “You doing alright, buddy?”

Walt nods as he settles back down. “I’m alright. This round of chemo is a bit rough. Frankly, I don’t have a hundred percent confidence in the quality of what Ed brought, but, well, it is what it is. Just keep driving. I’m going to rest for a few hours, and then I’ll drive through the night. We’ll stay on schedule.”

Shifting the car into drive, Saul accelerates back onto the highway, continuing their slow descent from the mountains. 

Now and then, he glances up at the rearview mirror to see how Walt is doing. After a few minutes, Walt settles back down and seems to be resting peacefully.

\---

Out of some mix of relief and trepidation, Saul’s heart skips a beat when they finally cross over the border into Massachusetts, but Walt sleeps through it.

The radio reception has been improving with each mile, and Saul tunes it to a 70s rock station as the day rolls by. While he might very well be out of the frying pan and driving himself straight into the fire, he can’t help smiling as he winds down the highway. After a couple of months cooped up in a cabin smaller than his living room, the freedom of the open road feels pretty damn great. He’d roll the windows down if it wasn’t below freezing outside.

Lunch time comes and goes, along with Connecticut and a piece of New York. Walt fell asleep four states ago and still hasn’t stirred. Saul too is starting to find it a struggle keeping his eyes open, driving hour after hour with no one to talk to. Snow is falling again, and the last thing he needs is to start dozing off at the wheel and get pulled over or worse. 

It’s late in the afternoon and somewhere in the wide middle of Pennsylvania when Saul decides to stop for the evening. 

Just off the highway is the Little Mountain Motor Inn, with a big sign advertising rooms at $65 a night. While Saul would prefer more ritzy, or at least business-level, accommodations, the most important things are flying under the radar and picking a place that he knows will take cash. Bedbugs are the least of his concerns.

The motel is basically three long yellow buildings, one story, each housing six or seven rooms. The parking lot is in the center, but it’s far enough away from the highway that the car won’t be visible. 

Saul checks himself in the visor mirror, smoothing his hair down. He can’t help but notice that it’s thinned out considerably over the past year. But with his red business shirt, charcoal suit, and the reading glasses he bought at the gas station, he really doesn’t look too bad all things considered. Like a slightly greasy corporate trainer who’s spent all week holding a conference in Scranton and now just needs a place to crash for the night on the long drive back home to Ohio where he pays the bills for a wife who really didn’t miss him all that much. 

He leaves Walt in the car and heads for the motel’s reception desk. An older woman is sitting behind the counter, engrossed in a paperback. She doesn’t look up when Saul comes in.

“Hi, I need a room. Just one night. Double occupancy.”

Slowly, she sets the book down and picks up a pen. “One queen or two doubles?”

“Uh, two doubles. Smoking. Pets don’t matter.”

Key in hand, Saul heads back to the car to wake up Walt. 

Rubbing his hand across his eyes, Walt sits up, puts his glasses back on, and looks around. “Where are we?”

“Pennsylvania. The outskirts of some national forest. Now I know it looks like Norman Bates could be lurking around any corner, but trust me, this is the best option for miles. C’mon, let’s get inside before--”

“No, no we’re not stopping.” Walt climbs out of the car, pushes past Saul, and opens the door to the driver’s side. “Give me the keys. The keys, Saul.” Walt is holding onto the door to support himself, and he looks worse than ever. Pale, overtired, folding in on himself like he’s trying to fight back nausea. 

“Look, you’re never going to be able to take on a whole gang of thugs looking like you just escaped out the window of the cancer ward. We both need some rest and then, in the morning, after a proper night’s sleep, we’ll figure this thing out, yeah?”

Remarkably, Walt concedes. “Okay,” he breathes, shutting the car door with a weak thud. “But the barrel can’t stay out here all night.”

“Let’s wait ‘til it’s dark, at least.”

Again, Walt nods, then slowly follows Saul into the cheap motel room.

\---

While Walt snoozes, Saul kicks off his shoes and lounges on his bed with a cigarette, taking long, slow drags as the twilight casts long shadows into the room. The carpet is dark brown, the furniture: also dark brown, and the quilts are splashed with an abstracted floral print straight out of the early Nineties. 

He ashes his Wilmington as he stares at the wood-paneled wall. Later he’ll turn on the TV, find some news or something mindless to fall asleep to, but for now he’s content to enjoy the quiet while he mulls things over.

“Hey, Walt,” he whispers. Then louder, “Walt, are you awake?”

With a low groan, Walt rolls over. “Hmm?” He is now.

Saul leans across the gap between the beds. “Hey, remember when you poisoned that kid, that Cantillo kid?”

“Mm?”

“And you had me lift that poison cigarette from Pinkman, but then I gave it back to you, right? What ever happened to it?”

Walt pulls himself up so that he’s propped up against the headboard. “I removed the ricin and stashed it in my house, hidden.”

Saul gives him a sly grin. “A place like Welker’s, that kind of operation, no way they’re connected to the city water line. My advice is to poison the well, literally. You get in, you get out. Hell, I bet no one would find them for a month.”

Walt chuckles a bit under his breath as he nods slowly. He looks over at Saul and smiles in approval as a bit of color starts returning to his face. There’s something uncharacteristically kindly in that smile. “You know, you might be onto something there. I think we can work with that.” Then his brow furrows as he glances at the clock. “Saul. I need to stay on schedule with my chemotherapy. Go get a packet out of the car.”

Slipping on his shoes and coat, Saul walks out of the room into the parking lot. It’s getting very chilly as the last light of the evening fades away over the highway. The forested hills all around look pitch black. The motel’s heating system might be thirty years old, but after that wood stove, it seems like a modern miracle, and Saul is relieved to be able to sleep in a real bed in a warm room. He returns with the chemo packet and small box containing the IV kit. 

Walt puts a pillow behind his back and sits upright. “Get me a can of soda, too.”

“Sure you shouldn’t have a water instead?”

Walt reaches up to hang the packet from the lamp over the nightstand and connect the line. “Not right now. This leaves a bad taste in my mouth, it makes water taste terrible.” He balls his fist tight, trying to find a vein, before picking up the needle and sticking himself. Once again, he’s having a hard time of it. 

Saul sits down on the edge of Walt’s bed and holds out his open palm. “Here. C’mon.”

Sighing in defeat, Walt shifts his legs over to give Saul room and stops prodding at his bruised arm. He hands over the needle. 

Walt’s skin in paper-thin and his veins are collapsing, but Saul is careful and takes his time, even though this sort of thing makes him a bit squeamish. Soon, the chemo is flowing at a steady drip.

Saul stays seated on the bed, his elbows resting on his knees. Keeping his voice just above a whisper, he asks, “You’ve been to Welker’s place before, yeah?”

“Yes. When we were negotiating about Pinkman.”

“So you got a good view of the lay of the land.”

Walt nods.

As the chemo slowly drains from the bag, Saul stays, lighting up another cigarette as he and Walt work out their plans, in hushed tones, late into the night.


End file.
